Salem's Witches (Neitherlands Book 1), page 5
A small part of her even wished it were so, for there was a handful of people out there she wouldn’t mind keeping safe in a box six feet under.
“I hope I can be of help, although I doubt so,” she said once the better part of her took back control. “As you might or not know, I’m new to the city. Only been around for a few months, and—”
“Where did you come from?” said Veronika.
“I came from…Ussuck, of course. Lived most of my life there, only to come here looking for adventure and—”
“That’s exactly where I came from. What part?”
Annabella sighed, and hoped she wouldn’t start sweating. Sweating made people seem suspicious. “The…the outskirts. Newer zone, we don’t even have a name for it yet.”
“But you lived most of your life in Ussuck, right?” said Sarah. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look young enough to have lived most of your life in a newer, nameless zone of…about any city.”
“That’s because I moved there just last year. From Downtown Ussuck,” said Annabella. There was a downtown area in every city. “I just grew to love that zone, so I’d rather call myself an inhabitant of it instead.”
“I hear you, downtown people…” Veronika grunted. “Look, if you ever need any help with adapting to the city you can come to me. I’ve been here long enough, and I know how hard it is for immigrants to fit in.”
“Some never do,” said Sarah, while eyeing Veronika.
“Can we go back to the investigation?” Annabella was starting to sweat and hoped the two women would stop prying. “I need to go back to my kids, and—” Something blue move outside, right in front of the window. She screamed.
“What happened?” said Sarah, jumping from her seat and staring at the window.
“Nothing, I just thought I saw…something,” said Annabella. There were way too many somethings in her life lately. The smallest thing could get her to jump, which was not okay. It had probably been a bird, although birds generally flew up while the blue hairy thing, whatever it was, had gone down. “It was blue, so probably a bird. Can we go back to—”
“The investigation, of course,” said Sarah. “Miss Bostwick, we need to ask you about…” She lowered her voice. “About the Church of Quackology.”
Annabella stopped breathing for a moment as every muscle in her body tightened. The whole room froze and— Never mind, the room didn’t freeze. But it may as well have for Annabella. She became cold and sweat poured out of about anywhere a person can sweat from. She was sure she’d leave a puddle on the floor when she finally got up. That is, if she didn’t faint first.
“Excuse me?” she said, trying to hide her fear and failing at it. Had the witches been dogs they would’ve lunged at her already. “I sure don’t know what you mean. I know nothing and have nothing to do with that horrible cult, and—”
“But you do know it’s a horrible cult,” said Veronika. “Meaning you know something about them.”
Anabella’s breathing became rapid and shallow. Perhaps if she breathed fast enough she’d faint and escape the investigation. “I’m sure I don’t know anything, ladies. It’s the first time I heard of them. I just…it sounds like quite the horrible cult to follow, that’s all. I would advize you to stay away from them, they don’t sound nice at all.”
She got up, only to have Veronika jump and grab her by the arm. “You’re not leaving that easily, miss. I wish I could calm you down by telling you you’re not in trouble, but your recent…performance has sent you straight to the top of our suspect list. Would you like to help us get you off that list, or are you comfortable having us investigating you instead of the church?”
Annabella sighed. She wasn’t stupid enough to keep going when she was beaten. “I’ll help you. I’ll tell you whatever I can, but not here.” She looked around, “The walls have ears, you know? Meet me tomorrow at my house, I’ll give you the address. I’ll tell you what I can, but please understand there might be things I can’t talk about without risking my own life. Also, I haven’t dealt with them in a while, so I don’t know much about their current actions.”
“Without risking your own…” Sarah seemed puzzled. “Why is everyone scared of these people? Who are they?”
“They are the kind of people you’d do well to stay away from. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go.”
New Wakilork has a certain allure after the rain that’s hard to match: Not only does it look pretty, as almost anywhere does when wet, but the danger of walking its streets can only be matched by…well, by walking its streets at night.
The slippery ground, as it turns out, makes it much more difficult for people to run away from danger. Thieves, on the other hand, never slip and fall, partly because they are taught how to prevent this during their Mugging 101 lessons in the Thieves’ Guild.
This is why, when walking back home, Sarah regarded the city with a mixture of romance and fear. She walked slowly, trying her best not to slip in her high heels while carrying a mountain of paper Salem had given her: His weekly notes on her looks. In it, he explained in excessive detail everything each of the witches had done wrong during the week—and as it turned out, each week the notes grew larger and larger. Sometimes she wished he’d cut to the chase and just give them a single piece of paper saying “Everything” to describe whatever it was he felt they had done wrong.
On top of that, Salem’s insistence that the events of that morning had absolutely nothing to do with any religious cults annoyed Sarah more than just a little. Working with him she had come to learn he was rather conservative for a fashion designer turned vigilante leader, but she had never though he’d put his fear of the gods above cracking a case.
“Stop wasting your time with this, and don’t go near that Bostwick wretch again,” said Sarah, mocking Salem. “If you do, I’ll make sure none of that time is paid and might even fire you lot, for I’m an idiot who couldn’t see a clue if it hit him in the face.”
She sighed, annoyed. “Also, your dress was too long yesterday. And her skirt too short. And let’s not mention Laura’s fingernails, for I almost fainted when I saw that picture on the papers, what will people think!” she went on. Mocking Salem made her frustration a bit more bearable. “And, by the way, from now on you shouldn’t ever wear pink. It’s clearly not the right color for someone of your…build! And don’t get me started on—”
Sarah ran into someone, making her fall down and let go of the many pages of critique she was supposed to read but wasn’t planning to. When she tried to get up, she saw them all scattered on the ground, getting wet as their mean, hurtful, borderline psychotic comments became unreadable.
She also saw the young man she had run into, his blue hair catching her attention. He was busily trying to pick up Salem’s notes.
“Wait! That’s not…necessary,” said Sarah, not only hoping the damp notes would tear, but also hoping the young man wouldn’t read whatever insults Salem had chosen to send her way.
The man ignored her and kept picking up the papers. After she called out to him a second time, he met her gaze and smiled. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “it was my fault, I wasn’t looking. I hope these aren’t too important.”
The man looked at the papers he held, the few he had managed to save from the water. Sarah grabbed them immediately, ripping them as she tried to hide the evidence that she had a tendency to wear way too much green makeup, which was just unacceptable and at times downright rude toward whoever happened to see her wearing it.
“It’s…it’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” she said, getting up. “I also was distracted, it’s…fine.”
Sarah took a few steps, trying to run away from the mountain of evidence that pointed to her being a master at committing fashion faux-pas, when the man called out to her again. She turned around to find he was following her.
“I’m sorry about this, I really am. It must have taken many hours for you to write all that, and now it’s lost…” The man sighed. “This might be odd, but I must insist on making it up to you. Maybe with some coffee or dinner? I swear I’m not a serial killer.”
Sarah smiled, knowing the man had just said exactly what a serial killer would. “I have to— Oh, whatever. I’ll take my chances and take you up on that offer,” she said. Her day had already been bad enough, and getting killed would only be a fitting ending for it. She also felt a tiny bit attracted to the man, but she wouldn’t say that.
The man extended his hand to her. “Let me show you I mean what I say, then. I’m Betelgeuse.”
Sarah told him her name.
“Nice to meet you, Sarah,” said Betelgeuse, grabbing her hand and kneeling in front of her to kiss it. “Shall we go now?”
4
Sarah laughed and sipped on her wine. For an unknown man in New Wakilork, Betelgeuse seemed rather nonthreatening and, at times, just nice. He had spent most of the dinner making her laugh with his stories, and she couldn’t help but be charmed by his charisma. The open-air restaurant to which he’d brought her helped his case, of course. This was a high-end place with nice decoration and enough light to see who you were having dinner with, but not enough to notice the scars that perhaps disfigured their face. That was usually the setting one would choose for a romantic dinner in a much more advanced relationship. If anything, the only thing she could think of as ruining the impromptu date was the chilly wind announcing the imminent arrival of a second storm.
“And the moral is, of course, don’t short-change a witch,” said Betelgeuse. “Else you risk your temporary blue hair becoming permanent.”
Sarah kept laughing, while the world swayed side to side in a soft, soothing manner that threatened to become a tempest if she didn’t let go of that glass for the rest of the night. She was a lightweight when drinking, who became giggly when tipsy.
“You could always get a new witch to make it…whatever color it used to be,” said Sarah. “Although, who knows, maybe you’ll find out that your natural hair went white while the spell was on and you didn’t even notice. Perhaps you’d want to keep it blue instead, just in case?”
Betelgeuse didn’t seem amused. He didn’t look angry, but his expression was certainly not the one of a person who had just heard a welcome comment. He looked more like the matron who, when loathing a house guest, politely asks to be excused for a moment then goes down to the kitchen to ask for their food to be poisoned.
Sarah giggled in Betelgeuse’s face, this time out of nervousness with the realization that she might have just destroyed her chances of a random guy she’d just met on the street liking her. Then she understood how unimportant it all was and laughed some more.
Soon enough, Betelgeuse smiled. The smile looked painful and only appeared on his face after he drank a full glass of wine in one go, but it was a smile at least. “Enough about me, tell me about yourself,” he said. “I dread to admit this, but I recognized you from the papers when I ran into you. I didn’t mention it because I was afraid you’d take me for a stalker.”
Sarah smiled and wondered if that was her cue to run as far as she could. “Shame, I’m wearing heels. Otherwise I’d make a run for it.”
“I wouldn’t try anything with you, you’re rather scary,” said Betelgeuse. There were many ways to describe Sarah’s petite frame and delicate features, but scary just wasn’t one of them. Not if you were over twelve. “I mean, if I try anything I’m sure I’ll be croaking within a minute…”
“Croaking?” Sarah stared at the glass of wine and set it down. She was sure she’d misheard, and that was never a good sign.
“Yes, I mean…you’d turn me into a frog, and that’s not something I want to experience…twice. Although I should have learned my lesson when it comes to dating witches…”
“Witch—” It took a moment for Sarah to understand. She wasn’t usually the sharpest knife in the drawer, often closely resembling a hammer, and the alcohol in her blood wasn’t helping. “Oh! I…I don’t know what to say, it’s just…”
“You don’t like turning people into frogs? That would be a first.”
“I’m not a witch.” Sarah felt somehow ashamed of saying it, as if she had misled Betelgeuse. “None of us is, it’s just a name. People believe we are witches indeed, I guess, but we have never pretended to be. We’re just…ourselves…” Sarah stared at the sky for one moment, lost in thought. It looked like the rain was returning sooner than expected. “Although I won’t deny it’s sometimes nice to have people treat you right just because they think you’ll destroy their homes otherwise.” A smile lit Sarah’s face. She wasn’t above letting people believe whatever they wanted to if she could profit from it. “But enough about me, what about you? What do you work in?”
“Of all things, I’m…a trainee at the College of Wizardry,” said Betelgeuse hurriedly. “I started there a year ago and—”
“You should show me some magic, then. Can you—”
“No.” Betelgeuse looked around. “We’re…not allowed to do magic outside the college during our first five years. Regulations, you know? To keep us from accidentally burning down the city or summoning entities from lower planes of the multiverse—things like that.”
“I see… What about—”
“No. I really would like to, but I can’t. It’s all secret; it’s absurd how much secrecy there is among wizards.”
Sarah took a moment to think about the wizards she had met, building a list with about zero entries: Wizards rarely ever came close to women. The reasons for this were highly debated and said debates only took place if no wizards were present, for safety reasons. “Now that I think of it…”
It occurred to Sarah that Betelgeuse was quite weird for a wizard. It wasn’t that he was weird himself—it was quite the opposite: he was too normal. She had never met any wizards in person, but she’d seen them on the streets: They walked around in robes and pointy hats, often had long beards, carried staves, and announced themselves in the flashiest of ways whenever they entered a place. Betelgeuse, on the other hand, did none of those things: He wore normal clothes, was clean-shaven, and acted in a way that, overall, was too quiet for a wizard. Almost suspiciously quiet for a person even; at times it seemed as if he were purposefully trying to not be noticed. “Betelgeuse, how come—”
A drop of rain landed on the table. It was a single, lonesome drop that had always been thought of as unruly and impatient. This time it had finally done it by running ahead of all its peers instead of waiting for the de facto signal. Meanwhile, all the other drops had taken advantage of its early absence to talk it over and were planning to shun it from then on.
“Will you look at that? It’s raining!” said Betelgeuse, sounding almost relieved. “We should go, Sarah. You don’t want your tiny little dress to shrink under the storm, do you?”
Sarah’s dress didn’t shrink. She was thin enough that it was impossible for a dress to shrink smaller than her size without disappearing. She attempted to make this clear, but was promptly shut up by Betelgeuse standing up and calling for the waitress: The date was over, and she had no say in it. Shocked, and more than just a bit tipsy, she saw how the man who had until just a minute earlier been chatting happily with her, paid the bill and left with nary a comment or a proper goodbye.
She then wondered if perhaps she had been drunk all along and the whole date had been imagined in her stupor. Sure it made more sense than what had just happened.
Desiderio hoped to get at least half an hour of peace and quiet to end his day. It wasn’t too much to ask, after all: A man who spent his days working in the city and for the city should be allowed a short while reading a book in his library in front of the fireplace while a storm raged outside. It was the kind of thing that brought him happiness in a city where happiness was in short supply, unless one had really low standards.
He sat on his favorite armchair holding a glass of wine[8] and opened his recently bought copy of Tyrants: A History of New Wakilorkian Politics, giddy to learn about whatever hijinks the old rulers of the city had been up to. Whatever they were, he was sure none of said exploits would stand up to Madame Xantiplam’s own. As much as he disliked her for hogging all the power, he also commended her for being highly creative in her endeavors.
A knock sounded at the door. Desiderio jumped, startled: He wasn’t expecting visits, and he couldn’t recall leaving the front door open. He paid attention for a moment and then, since no sound followed, sat back again, wondering what could have made such a noise.
No sooner had he grabbed his book and the glass of wine than a knock was heard again. He jumped once more, spilling a bit of the wine over his suit.
Desiderio put aside his wine and book, grabbed his cane, and got up. Slowly he went to the door, thinking of everything the offender deserved to go through for interrupting his well-deserved rest and making him ruin his suit. The list was a long one, and it wasn’t full of pretty things.[9]
He grabbed the handle and, as soon as he twisted it, whatever lay behind pushed the door open, throwing him to the floor.
From his new, not-quite-improved point of view, he managed to see the intruder and marvel at the ridiculousness of his blue hair. There it was, a completely soaked Betelgeuse walking into his living room with no regard for all the many expensive items in it that would be totally ruined by the idiocy-contaminated water.
“What in the Neitherlands are you doing here?” No torture Desiderio could think of would be good enough for Betelgeuse, who instead of answering just stood there, dripping water on top of a incredibly expensive rug.
Betelgeuse seemed lost for a moment. “Why are you on the floor?” he said once he saw Desiderio. “Here, let me help you.”
Desiderio shunned Betelgeuse’s attempts at help, instead reaching for his cane, getting up, then hitting him on the leg with it. “You useless bastard! You pushed me. Have you never learned not to push on doors being opened to let you in?”
