CASED—overflowing of unrestrained lust;
AZOTE—enduring;
BOROS—devouring, gluttonous;
ETOSA—idle, useless;
DESAC—to overtake and stick close.
The CASED square can render its wielder invisible, under the right circumstances (along with gaining them access to all nearby hidden treasures, works of art and statuary), so at first I’d thought of that…‘til the Princess herself had pointed out a peculiar secondary characteristic of the square which might be just as useful to our cause, given the restrictions we were laboring under. or even more so.
As Curzon’s foot made contact, he froze stock-still, unable to shift a quarter-inch further either way. “Uh,” he said at the feel of it, intelligently. Then: “Oh, my God. What the good goddamn shit Hell?”
I just smiled, feeling my own skin ripple as his form flowed up and over mine, from face to naughty parts and everything in between. “‘Lo, Erroll,” I said. “How’s it hangin’?”
He gaped at me a while, not even resisting when I unbuttoned his shirt, shucked the rest of his pants down and gently encouraged him to kick his boots off, too, like some five-foot-ten toddler. Finally, he observed—with the stunned yet slightly self-pleased air of somebody who’s just figured out what the word hidden in that big Saturday morning paper jumble must be—
“—You really are a witch.”
“Yup. Now, how ‘bout takin’ one last ride on the ol’ skin snake, just for luck?”
“…What?”
“Aw, don’t fret, cupcake—you ain’t actually my type, anyhow. Sleep.”
Thus, all tricked out in Guard Curzon drag, I hiked up “my” keybelt and headed for the workshop. Passed Guard Brenmer on the way—ensnared by a howling knot of women, caught in the very manhood-destroying act of getting beat down and having his shit took by unarmed vagina-bearers. “Erroll, help!” he yelled at me, as I went by; I shot him the double finger, and kept right on going.
The Cornishes I found backed into a corner, shoulder to shoulder, kicking and punching at all comers like some well-trained Ultimate Fighter tag-team. And: “You two, warden’s office!” I yelled, discharging “my” weapon into the air, only to barely avoid being flattened in the resultant rush for the door.
Which is how we finally came, at long last, to the point of the whole damn exercise: trading letters forth and back, each to each, like some calligraphy lesson from Hell, while Maybelle’s captive soul-fragment flickered and spat and flared in sympathy like a late-night TV-blue bug-light. While that same static charge buzz tuned up and down our bodies, meshing us together in a true witches’ cradle of probability strings, drawing sparks. I could see Dionne’s back-muscles twitch with tension, as the free ends of her hair started to lift; saw Samaire’s blue eyes darken yet once more as her bad blood rose to meet mine, studying me like I was some book she had to strain just in order to read, and wasn’t even sure she really wanted to, when all was said and done. But it wasn’t exactly like she could stop, either…
And me looking right on back, thinking: Oh, you wanna think you’re like her, that you’re not like me…but truth is, Princess, it’s the whole other way ‘round, ‘cause the only thing you and Miss Dee really got in common’s the pussy you both slid out of. You just want to be normal, so bad it keeps you up nights, taste of it like a mouthful of blood; Hell, I can’t blame you for that. But one day, all those restraining tattoos, all that save-your-soul script you got all over you? They’re gonna just flare up and crisp off, like paper in fire…
(Like a tower falling, struck by lightning, now and forever more. Like Babylon. Like Charn.)
…Yeah. Just like that.
And then, then—that’s when we’re really gonna get to see some fun.
&
nbsp; Charging each other up, winding that phantom winch of combined power ever higher, higher, higher. ‘Til our fingertips met across the paper and our heels began to lift, describing a slow, con-centric circle in the air like we was two antimatter planets drawn into orbit, an incipient black hole twisting reality’s fabric ‘til it bent and broke. A paradox waiting to happen.
A howl of wind from nowhere, brisk and bleak and bone-stripping, as the lights pulsed and the sirens wailed on; it was completed, as that poor Daddy-betrayed fool Jesus Christ would say. The SATOR box was done.
I laughed out loud, hair cracking like a whip. And heard Samaire yelling to Dionne even from the very depths of her frenzy, over it all: “Now, Dee, now—now now now now, do it do it do it—do it, do it goddamn now!”
Dionne raised the square, snug in the whirling widdershins circle of our arms, and spoke the words, her merely human voice near to cracking with strain. And we were off, gone, spiraling fast through time and space, hovering through the fog and the filthy air—out of M-vale at last, chased and dragged by Abramelin’s devils and angels alike, while Maybelle’s soul blew/boiled off in the other direction with a thin, despairing cry…
Samaire had her eyes closed, but Dionne had hers open; I made sure of that. So when I hove in to kiss Samaire, before either of them knew enough to protest—sudden as rape, my tongue hook-probing deep, scratching on hers like oh-so-voluptuous Velcro—there was no way Dionne could stop herself from doing just what she would have under any other circumstances: lunge to thrust herself between, SATOR box forgotten in her haste, still trailing from the same fist she was aiming for my jaw.
It touched us both at once—repelling factor back on full, with no Maybelle for protection—and hurled us to the four winds’ tornado-churned quarters, faster than thought; Dionne one way, Samaire and I the absolute opposite. We came down hard, falling fast into black. Then awoke later—much later—all on the cold hill’s side…
…with no one left near to hold onto, in this dim twilight world, but each other.
—
Samaire looked over at me, head hung down, her eyes like bruises. “Where’s…Dionne?” she managed, at last.