Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 29
Then she jumped at him.
The beach was a nice place. After his hard work, there was nothing like soaking in the sun and taking a well-deserved rest. The blue skies welcomed his presence, as if acknowledging he had played an important part in helping maintain the status quo in New Wakilork. Everyone walking by looked at him, and plenty of women and more than a few men even dared catcall him or cheer on him for saving the city. Life was, therefore, perfect. Even the sun seemed to cheer on his accomplishments, shining brightly and heating him up.
Only it seemed to be heating him up a bit too much. Now that he noticed, the whole thing felt like an oven.
Betelgeuse coughed, opened his eyes, and saw little more than smoke. He could barely breathe and had a horrible headache. He turned his head to see fire on the entrance: He was trapped. The smell of burning rugs and walls and everything in the building was overpowering, and for a moment he feared this was his end.
He got up clumsily, trying to ignore the pain all over his body. His instinct was to be grateful for his ability to move at all. A glance confirmed the other exit was also on fire, and the secret exit seemed to be blocked by a couch, and also by some fire.
Betelgeuse stepped back and wondered if that was indeed his end. If so, perhaps waking had been the wrong thing to do; at least the dream was somehow good. His limited visibility kept him from finding a way out, with seemingly all ways blocked, except for…
The windows. The fire hadn’t reached them yet, and there couldn’t be fire outside. His breathing shallow, he tried to remember what floor he was on. He was almost sure it was the first, which gave him a decent chance of survival if he jumped. Maybe he’d break a few bones, but what’s a broken bone or two compared to burning to death?
It didn’t matter if he was right or wrong, because even plunging into an endless pit would be great compared to burning. And he didn’t have much time to put his thoughts in order, for the fire was closing in on him and soon enough he wouldn’t have space to jump against the window.
Taking the deepest breath the smoke allowed him to, he ran as fast as he could at the window and toward either salvation or his own demise.
In the months and years to come, the events that ended the attack at the Quackology compound would come back and haunt Leggy in his dreams and, occasionally, in real life. After going over them in his head hundreds of times, he would still find himself unable to understand exactly what, how, and why any of it had happened.
It all started in the heat of the fight, while he led the army or at least tried to pretend to. He didn’t know what he was doing, but those around him didn’t seem to notice, so it was all right: As long as they didn’t notice he was lost, people would obey, for better or worse.
Probably for worse.
Whether the attack was going well, he couldn’t tell, for all he could see from his relatively safe place atop one of the walls was people fighting, and fighting had never made any sense to him. He knew they were killing each other, sort of, although some of the movements, poses, and noises the armies made could be mistaken for something else by someone less pure of mind, or so he had once heard. Not that such thoughts had ever crossed his head.
A noise then took his attention from the crowd and to the building itself: Glass shattered, followed by a loud scream. He turned his head to see a man falling from a second-floor office, screaming, down to the ground. Smoke came out of the hole in the window, illustrating a problem: The building was on fire, and buildings on fire were prone to collapsing and killing any armies fighting in the vicinity.
His fear of the building falling didn’t last long, mostly because it was replaced by a bigger dread of existence itself as a high-pitched, impossibly loud scream pierced his ears and, he supposed, those of everyone else present. He turned to what seemed to be the source of the noise: The topmost floor of the Quackology building.
Then the window broke and the strangest being he had ever seen came out through it: A tall, winged woman. She flew away screaming, her arms extended to her sides. In her left hand she held a bloody dagger, pointing it upwards, and in her right, dangling from its hair, was a severed head. Three women astride broomsticks followed her, as if serving as an entourage.
Confusion reigned immediately and, perhaps as one should expect when a building is suddenly shown to be on fire, followed by a monster with a severed head exiting it while screaming, the fighting stopped. Then panic took over, making nearly everyone forget about the fight, many of them choosing to run for their lives instead.
Thus the battle drew to a close, and soon enough the ever-present rain came down over the city. Leggy retreated to Dominion Tower, expecting he would be called soon to retell his version of the story. Considering what he had just seen, he would need a lot of booze to put his thoughts in order.
The only thing bothering him was that he was almost sure the monster had dreadlocks. And a part of him was also sure it had been expected to lead the battle but failed to show up.
EPILOGUE
“I suspected it just a few days before the battle,” said Laura as she stacked her bags in the caravan. “When she reunited the army for a moment she did this where her eyes shone. Even for witches or wizards changing your eyes like that is uncommon, to say the least. So I looked into it…”
“And you found out she was nameless, then neglected to tell us?” said Veronika.
“I wasn’t sure, not until I saw those wings. Those…beings, they can mask themselves quite well.” Laura took the bundled broomsticks from Sarah’s hands and put them atop their luggage. They had decided to keep the brooms as a memento of the weirdest case they ever had. “So I couldn’t have told you before. Right now I just feel lucky we survived.”
“Yet we should have done something,” said Sarah. “I mean, there’re three of us, right?”
“She could have killed us all three by just blinking. You do not mess with the nameless. They are absurdly powerful. Beings made of magic or something.”
Laura stared at their luggage, neatly placed in the caravan that was to lead them to Ussuck. She didn’t want to leave the city, but they had no choice: As her way of thanking them for their involvement in dismantling Quackology, the Dominatrix had decided not to prosecute them…as long as they left the city by Sunday, never to return.
“I guess that’s all of it,” she said. “We should get going. Any of you found out if the press finally reported on the battle?”
“They did just today,” said a fourth voice. Laura turned to find Sister Theresa standing behind them, holding a newspaper. A picture of the now mostly burned-down Quackology headquarters adorned the front page. “But they got it all wrong. Says the battle was on Friday.”
“That’s the Dominion’s media blackout at work for you,” said Veronika. “The building burned for two days and everyone could see it…”
“But nobody ever contradicts her, of course,” said Sister Theresa, smiling. “I heard you would be there, and had to come to—”
“To say goodbye to us?” said Sarah, smiling back at the nun.
“No— I mean, yes, but also I was hoping you could delay your departure a few hours. I’m hosting a ceremony in Annabella’s memory, and I wanted you three to come pay your respects.”
“You recovered her body?” said Laura.
“No, it… Apparently it burned, along with the stage and most of the building. Or maybe the Dominatrix got ahold of it and had it cremated, who knows. We’re just going to remember her a bit, give her a sendoff. Would you come?”
Laura looked at her friends. This was the last time they’d be together in New Wakilork, at least for a while. The change was good, since she didn’t want to spend much time in a city where the smallest attempt at justice could get her jailed, but…it was still a bit of a sad goodbye. Putting it off for a few hours wouldn’t hurt. They could accept… She had no need to worry about Sarah, who seemed quite happy and had already placed herself at Sister Theresa’s side. But Veronika…
“We should leave if we want to avoid more problems,” said Veronika. If anything, their recent experiences had made more curt than usual—as it turned out, it was possible for her to become worse. Laura could only hope returning to her hometown would help bring her back to her not-so-sweet, yet somewhat lovable demeanor. “Also, I’m not sure I want to have much to do with religion after this. It’s just…”
“I think I’ll join you,” said Laura to Sister Theresa. “We did somehow start this whole mess anyway. We should pay Annabella our respects.”
“But the Dominatrix—”
“You seem oddly fixated on her, for someone who happily breaks rules. Also, what she doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”
“We should go now, it’s important,” said Veronika, looking at the desert in front of them. They had to cross it to reach Ussuck, their next destination. Curiosity creeped over her as she saw a storm on the horizon, with what seemed to be a kite flying in it, getting repeatedly struck by lightning. “I don’t want to go back to jail and the Dominatrix was quite menacing. Also, you two really want to get mixed up with more beliefs? Didn’t you have enough for a lifetime? I mean, let’s be honest, we…”
There was silence behind her. Veronika turned around to see her friends already nearing the city walls.
She looked at them, then at the caravan, then at them again. She sighed. “Can you deliver our stuff and we go in the next caravan?” she said to the driver. He assented.
Veronika ran after her friends. She didn’t want to go, but they did, and to be honest, it was always good to spend a few more hours away from Ussuck.
Leggy stood on tiptoe to make himself look just a bit taller to the man behind the box office. Being tall had never been his forte, and he feared he’d be denied entry. After all, there were all kinds of abstract rules in the Dominion. Perhaps there was a minimum height required to enter official acts, who knew? He had never seen a dwarf in one of those, so it was entirely possible.
“I got the ticket from the Dominatrix herself,” he said to the visibly bored employee behind the glass, who replied with a grunt, sealed his ticket, and gave it back. “She said it was a mistake and somebody’s head would roll for it, since my name wasn’t supposed to be on the guest list, but she gave it to me anyway!”
The employee grunted again and stared at Leggy’s side, possibly telling him to move on and let the next guest pass. He ignored it. “I mean, it’s been truly exciting. I got sent to jail just three days ago for rebellion, then yesterday they came pick me up to set me free so I could come, because attendance is mandatory. Isn’t that awesome?”
Nothing seemed awesome behind the counter. Nothing at all.
“I bet you don’t get many—”
“Sir, can you please move on?” said the man. “There’s a queue of, I don’t know, like a thousand people behind you. If you have such exciting stories, please go tell them to your wife, or whatever. Let me do my job.”
Leggy left the counter, more than a bit aghast. He felt oddly disrespected, and thought guests to such events shouldn’t be treated like that. His sadness didn’t last long, for as soon as he entered Dominion Theater he was greeted with an absurdly ostentatious reception room: It was huge, lavishly decorated, properly ventilated, and possibly the first place Leggy had stepped into in his life other than the throne room that didn’t smell like death and decay.[46] It was marvelous.
He instantly realized he knew nobody in the room, but that wasn’t going to get in the way of his fun. He stood there, staring at the people and being generally unsure of what to do. Perhaps he should skip the pleasantries and move onto the opera hall for the main show.
There was actually somebody Leggy knew, or sort of knew, among the crowd. Betelgeuse was standing in a corner staring at the people. His arm was in a sling and he walked with a noticeable limp. He had barely survived his encounter with LeFlay and the burning of the building thanks to a small group of people who rescued him after he fell and took him to a hospital.
Then Desiderio, who still insisted the crow hadn’t been his, rewarded him with tickets to the opera, which he knew nothing of. Coming from Desiderio and considering he had ignored his orders, it seemed like a somewhat contrived threat. He went anyway, because he didn’t have much else to do and there was always the slight chance of meeting a rich heiress attending such an event, although his sorry state would probably get in the way of attracting anyone at all.
Slowly and rather painfully, he decided to make his way to the fourth floor balcony. If Desiderio hadn’t planned a revenge, sure making him walk up three flights of stairs in his current state would work as one just fine. His ascent was slow at first, until he saw Desiderio enter the reception room.
Then he suddenly felt much better and went up the stairs within seconds. They hadn’t met face to face since the battle and he didn’t feel like doing it anytime soon. Parrotphones and mail would do just fine for the time being. Desiderio would only bring more stress into his life, and he was already dealing with the trauma of having found a single strand of white hair on his head that morning. Meeting up with him would make the rest of his hair turn white within days, or worse, fall out—and being bald or looking old was not an option for him. He even planned to keep himself away from too much excitement in the future to avoid such situations.
Desiderio didn’t see Betelgeuse, not that he wanted to see such a failure of a private eye anyway. Betelgeuse was good, but not great, and he’d only hire him because he was cheap and put him on cases where screwing up was an option.
He had considered once or twice hiring him with the expectation that he’d screw up, but he feared that would be the one case where the blue-haired-not-quite-wonder would deliver an amazing performance.
And then there was this case, where the idiot had pretty much hired himself by making up some weird event with a crow and a fake note. He should have had him killed for that.
Since he knew thousands of people, there were plenty of attendants expecting to salute him and engage him in small talk in the room. He didn’t care for them, for he didn’t care for the chatter unless explicitly necessary, so he went straight to the hall. It was right in front of the door that a peculiar scene was taking place.
“But mister Seifer, this is a great opportunity for both of us!” said Stephanie in a voice that was far too loud, almost grabbing the suit of the man in front of her. He moved back to deflect her.
“It’s see-fer, not say-fer!” he said, “I already told you, if you want us to publish your autobiography, perhaps you should write it first. Or try to engage me while I’m working, not at a public event.”
“But you’re the head of Wakilork Publishing, aren’t you? You’re able to make this happen, and—”
“And I’m not working right now.” The man stared at her, hoping she would go away, but she seemed to refuse to. What was it with popular singers these days? They seemed to compete with each other just to see who was the rudest. “Now please can you go? If you want, you can give my assistant a call and make an appointment. We’ll discuss it then.”
The woman seemed defeated. “I brought you something. I was hoping to give them to you as a thank you for accepting my proposal, but I guess I’ll do it anyway because I’m nice like that.”
Stephanie took out small box and handed it to Seifer, who grabbed it cautiously as if expecting it to blow up. He opened it to find a pair of earplugs inside. Instead of asking her what the meaning of that was, he stared. He was good at staring.
“I got a pair for myself too,” she said. “And I thought these for you would be good in case you forgot to bring your own pair. Isn’t it funny how they make us come here wearing fancy clothes to mingle with other high-society folks like us, then force us to listen to that horrible wailing? I mean, I’m a singer, so I should know what’s good and not, and this is just criminal.”
Seifer thought other crimes were being committed at present, and one about to be committed if certain woman didn’t go away. Instead of saying it, he stared again.
“So I hope this little token of my affection will—” Stephanie’s smile faded. She seemed to have finally understood the meaning of his stare. “I… I think the show is about to begin. I should go,” she said, leaving him alone.
He entered the hall and went to his seat. At least everyone on the floor seemed decent enough, and if he was lucky that woman would have been assigned the last seat on the last row on the top floor, preferably behind a column. Some people just wouldn’t understand class if it hit them on the face, and that woman was one of them.
Also, who the hell had sent a parrotphone to the opera? He took his seat, annoyed by the huge parrotphone with the even bigger, colorful tail perched on the back of a seat just two rows ahead of him. He hoped the stupid bird wouldn’t keep him from watching the show, and hoped even harder such riffraff as that woman and whomever the parrotphone belonged to stopped being invited to such events.
The parrotphone belonged to Salem, of course. Rather than going to the event he sent the bird to broadcast everything in the opera house back to him. Then he could enjoy just listening to it from the panic room in his house, which he seldom left these days.
After everyone was seated, the Dominatrix arrived at the main balcony with her entourage. She took the seat front and center and stared at everyone around, making sure only those invited where there. She couldn’t find anyone out of place, although one person she couldn’t quite recall.
“That man there,” she said to Mr. Gupita, “the one on the floor to the right side. Who was that?”
“That’s Mr. Seifer, Madame,” said Mr. Gupita. “Head of Wakilork Publishing. He came over just last week for an audience where you gave him the tickets.”
Madame Xantiplam tried to remember the scene. She found it odd that she had forgotten, although now that Gupita mentioned it she somehow recalled it. Or at least, when she tried, only a pair of shiny green eyes came to mind. “I guess it’s fine, then,” she said. “Just making sure the place was free of deplorables.”
