Witch, Please
Engilda’s brew. I’m starting to think my alcohol consumption is gonna be the death of me.
At the top of the stairs I am pushed to the left into a dining room with scored plaster walls, painted that shade of
off-white that no one likes but that can be relied upon to look the exact same for twenty-five years. Around the
smallish circular table are five or six cosplay dorks in burgundy robes and Eyes Wide Shut masks. On the table is a
bronze dagger and a book bound in green leather with grotesque ripples and an iron lock.
Great. Somebody dug a grimoire out of an old castle or monastery somewhere, and have been trying to open it. I’d
guess they ran through the usual rounds of incantations and settled on blood sacrifice. I’d guess the whole stupid
business up to this point was an elaborate ruse to pull me into this. I hate it when I underestimate darklings.
“So what’s that supposed to be?” I said, because I’m tired of guessing.
“It is,” says a voice that sounds close enough to Gany’s, “the Necronomicon.”
“Fuck you,” I said, “That doesn’t exist.”
“You watch your language,” said Pinch-Face, still behind me. I turn my head and say “Really?” but I don’t say “Make
me,” because I’m trying to be less stupid right now.
“It does exist,” says a male voice, that kind of sounds like David, which really makes me feel extra stupid, “and we
have found it. And your blood will open it.”
“ Your
blood will open it,” they all say in unison, which is supposed to be hypnotic or creepy but just sounds like
cosplayers cosplaying.
“Lovecraft made it up,” I said, “It’s fiction. It’s a B-movie. You can’t be this stupid.”
“That’s what he wanted everyone to think,” said a voice I don’t recognize.
“The greatest trick the devil ever pulled,” I say, snottily. “Much subversive. Very surprise. Wow.”
One of them raises a hand and Pince-Face pushes me towards the table. Which was what I was hoping for. I lurch
forward like I’ve stumbled and I grab the bronze dagger and as everyone gasp-screams I swing it round in a
haymaker arc and catch Pinch-Face on the forehead above the eye. Bronze is a softer metal than iron or steel but I
still feel it bite. He yells and falls backward and drops his club and I reach into his pants with my left hand as he
grabs his face and yoink his pistol and give him a kick. Then I spin round, aiming the pistol in a stupid movie fashion
at the rest of them.
“Hands up,” I say. And I corral them all, Pinch-Face included, to the far corner of the room, and tell them to get on
their knees, hands on their heads.
“Masks off,” I say. And lo and behold, I was right for a change. There’s Gany, and there’s David, and right there is
Englida, and hey, it’s Connie, looking sour as ever. Plus there’s two other kids who look like they’re still working
out the difference between Emo and Goth.