Usor, dilapidatore, tentatore, seignatore, devoratore, concitore et seductore—all ye ministers and companions, I direct, conjure, constrain and command ye to fulfil this behest willingly, namely straightaway to consecrate this image, which is to be done by (insert name here) in the name of (insert name here), and that as the face of the one is contrary to the other, so the same may never more look one upon another.
But you don’t care about all that. You don’t care about anything I do.
Do you?
* * *
At 6:30 I reset my watch. I brought everything back down to zero.
I went through the house, breaking things. I was pretty systematic about it.
I went upstairs. I took off my clothes. I folded them neatly, and burned them.
I smeared myself with incense ash, and ran myself a bath.
I washed myself clean, nameless.
Soon I will take a new knife, never used before, and write your name on the inside of either wrist. An inch deep.
* * *
It’s hard to write now, and I apologize for the way this letter must look. But you can console yourself with the knowledge that it will be my last.
The most effective spell of all in my catalogue involves baptizing something living in the name of the person you wish to affect, and then killing it. As the body decays, the person whose name it bears suffers a similar dissolution.
It’s the oldest spell I know—the most direct. So, fittingly enough, I saved this one for last. Very pure. Very simple. If it works, I won’t be around to take it off; if it doesn’t work, I won’t be around to find out.
Everybody wins.
* * *
I date this letter Day Twelve.
I think you will recognize the signature.
Dead Bodies Possessed By Furious Motion
I wanted to dance with the young men in town
I wanted to dance till they hunted me down.
—Susan Musgrave.
IT WAS 1976, IT was night, it was Malibu. Elder Tallbie bent over to snag herself a beer, posing for this big, dumb guy named Flynn who she had her eye on—normally straight as an equally big, equally dumb post—who thought she was a guy, and wanted her anyway. Desperately. Which was fine with her. Easier to move and act the way she wanted to, in this particular teeth ‘n’ tits-obsessed decade, with a sexually ambiguous glamor to hide behind; she estimated it had probably been 75 years since she’d last worn a dress on more than two consecutive occasions.
Not that she missed the sensation, exactly.
As she rose, Elder caught Flynn sneaking a sidelong glance at her ass and gave him a narrow, wicked glare in return, licking the sharp tips of her fangs.
“Hey, fag,” she said. “You checkin’ out my action?”
Flynn went red. “As if. Fag.”
“Fag.”
“Fag.”
And then it was later, time-lapse fast: The moon blinking up and over, a swollen white balloon against the endless night. They lay back in the light of the dying luau pit, surrounded by drained beers. Flynn trying hard not to let any part of him touch any part of her, as Elder toyed with her last bottle, and kept her fierce gaze firmly centered on his sweaty, fire-reddened cheek.