Witch Water (34 page)

Fanshawe felt her sex spasm in fits around
his erection. He continued to twist on the floor, veins beating in
his head. A scream of the most demented ecstasy burst from
Evanore’s throat; Fanshawe’s heart beat so hard if felt as thought
it were trying to churn its way out of his chest. Then his entire
body heaved on the floor as his own climax broke, bringing a
sensation of pleasure more potent than anything he’d ever felt.

A sound more like a death-rattle than a
scream ground out of his own throat when his vision turned black
and he felt heat so intense he could’ve just been dropped into a
slag furnace—

—and then Fanshawe was sitting wide-eyed and
fully dressed at a round wooden table inlaid with pearls. Several
candles flickered; the same centuries-old paintings that hung in
his suite at the inn now surrounded him, but they looked
brand-new.

A glass of wine sat before him, and sitting
beyond it, across the table, was Jacob Wraxall, his green eyes
glittering.

“Pray, pardon the viciousness of my
attendant’s hectoring,” the old man said. “His orders to do so were
mine alone.”

Fanshawe could only stare.

“And an equal pardon I’ll hope you to grace
upon my rather randy daughter, and ye fervid eccentricities that be
her wont when coupling with a man.”

“Eccentricities is putting it mildly,”
Fanshawe finally managed to speak.

“But before interview could be granted, it
was required in the utmost that thy faith be proved.” Wraxall
smiled ever-so-slightly. “And so it has been.”

Fanshawe’s mind felt riotous with questions;
and Wraxall seemed to read this in his face.

“I can only conjecture, friend,” the man
began, “what might addle thee firstmost. All these matters will be
answered to thee. As anent to ye chase by Sheriff Patten and his
nincompoop assignees, and ye great eruption of light, additives of
sartain mineral salts provided ye strange and startling hue its
illuminance—lo, just a flashpot—while ye vicious cur’s progress was
forestalled forthwith by an ably bespoken Confoundment Hex. Its
disorienting effect remains vital for only the passage of seconds,
but seconds, as your presence indubitably ostends, were sufficient
to spare thy neck. In all, ‘twas a simple thing—little more than a
parlor trick, same as the Stasis Spell bespoken to you next—”

Without even thinking of it, Fanshawe
remembered the words that Rood had said, words that seemed to have
semi-solid substance:
Nard’gurnlut do’blyn srug…

“’Twas necessary, to keep thee compliant for
thine anointment, and, yea, the sequent entertainment of my most
lovely and
awful
daughter.”

But now Fanshawe’s confusion was beginning
to gain a form of coherence. “How could Rood haven’t gotten in the
house so fast?”

“Thy meaning, sir?”

“The sheriff’s men and that damn dog were
chasing me through the alley!” Fanshawe yelled. “But after the
flash, I got into the house. It was Rood who threw them off my
direction—he ran down the street with the
sheriff,
but the
second I got into the house, Rood was
waiting
for me! It’s
impossible! He didn’t have time to get back inside!”

“Time, good student, is a notion of which
you’ll become more apprized sooner than later, I say.” Wraxall
stroked his trimmed Van Dyke, as if amused. “But I should think
such possibilities would already have come to thee.”

Fanshawe pounded his fist on the table.
“What are you talking about!”

“’Twas the Bridle which thee rode to come
hither.”

The Bridle,
Fanshawe thought.

“’Tis a genius mechanism given men as me by
the great dark Benefactor, whom I live to sarve. A man such as
thyself, possessed of understanding, should surely see this.”

“It-it’s some occult
thing…
that
manipulates time,” Fanshawe said to himself.

“Far more than mere manipulation it is of
which we be speaking. It is an instance of one’s spirit being
united with the ways of our Benefactor. Such knowledge be bestowed
upon only a precious few.” Wraxall pointed. “You.”

Fanshawe continued to stare.

“Yea,
you.
But I shall give thee
witness, to further embolden thee,” and with that, Wraxall seemed
to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut, and—

Now Fanshawe was standing in the silent
hall, Wraxall smiling at his side. “Time? Space? Such things these,
thought to be constants, but to those so gifted, they be but
playthings to ye minister of Lucifer”—and then Wraxall made the
facial gesture again, to leave himself and Fanshawe standing in a
small bedroom occupied by a high, veiled poster bed. “Behold,”
Wraxall said.

It was
Evanore
who lay there, with
Rood standing by, leaning over intently. Evanore grunted, her face
a grimace. She was nude and—

Holy shit,
Fanshawe thought.

—very pregnant. But after several forceful
shrieks, her belly collapsed. Rood reached between her legs and
raised up a wet, new-born infant.

Fanshawe trembled. “That’s not…”

“Ye child of thy seed shared with my
daughter—”

“But that was just a few minutes ago!”

“So to thee it may seem, for ye Bridle
skews
time, venturer, yet he who
masters
it
owns
it.”

Fanshawe looked again. The squalling newborn
lay now at Evanore’s bosom. As the tiny thing suckled, Evanore
grinned…right at Fanshawe.

Again, the warlock transplanted them, this
time, to the foyer. A dog was heard barking outside, along with the
shouts of men. Rood grinned at Fanshawe as he set down a bloody
knife. Behind him on a shelf lay an indiscernible shape—a
tiny
shape—yet before him on a table sat two bowls of
blood.

“Back, I take thee, forward—any and all!”
Wraxall said. “Like a jester who juggles pins amid ye air, so do I
juggle time!”

The nausea rose in Fanshawe’s gut, even
after the scene disappeared, leaving him to sit in a dark parlor
room. He didn’t have to be told that the blood he’d drunk was that
of his own child.

“Forsooth, sir—these be ye secrets I design
to teach.”

Fanshawe’s mind spun. “I don’t want your
secrets! I don’t want to know any of this, and I don’t want to be
here!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I’m not evil! I don’t want to
be a fuckin’ warlock!”

“Nay?” Only one candle lit the room. Wraxall
looked like little more than a shadow. “’Twas of thine own will
that thee are here.
You
sought such secrets.
You
engaged ye looking-glass. And,
you,
sir, were all too eager
to ride ye Bridle.”

Fanshawe went limp in his chair.

“To thee I shalt bequeath ye Two Secrets of
which you hath willingly read already. The
test
thee hath
passed. Thy
mettle
hath been proved. Only one other such
venturer has come here, claiming to seek ye same.”

Something small and dark flapped on the
table before Fanshawe. He picked it up.

It was a wallet.

Fanshawe opened it to find a New York
driver’s license and a picture of—

“Eldred Karswell. So he
did
come
here.”

“This he did, seeking secrets such as you.
Aye, but at a glance I knew that his poise was but a feign. He
claimed to serve ye Benefactor, yet one of such he was not.”

Karswell was a Christian mystic,
Fanshawe remembered,
and a former minister.

“Yet his aspect here at once introduced
quite an
incongruous
element, and with but a glance I espied
his falsehood, for his
truth
I glimpsed in the tone of his
aura…
”

Fanshawe’s gaze was dragged up by the
statement. “What color? What color was Karswell’s aura?”

“White as new-felled snow—”

“And mine?” Fanshawe shook where he sat.
“What color is
mine?
”

“Black,” the word grated from Wraxall’s
throat. “Same as ye hue of thy heart, like deepests earth’s
blackest ichors.” Wraxall’s shape paused; he seemed to be
appraising Fanshawe’s reaction. “But this thee know already. In
matters appertaining to ye imposture called
Karswell,
from
the house he was cast, then encaptured by ye sheriff and deputies.
’Twas a joyous sight to behold—his end.”

Fanshawe remembered the image of Karswell’s
face, or lack thereof.
They barreled him…

Now Wraxall’s words in the dark seemed to
vibrate like some suboctave groan. “You too wilst have such power
as I, to play with time as thou see fit, and to thine own great
gain, whereat Lucifer be praised.”

The word—
Lucifer
—seemed to hang in
the darkness like the face of a barely seen watcher.

“To one such as thyself, such things seem
impossible, since we know time to be of ye Nature God hath put upon
us. How wondrous, then, must it be to have in thy hands such black
endowment to
corrupt
God’s will, and forge the impossible
into that which be
more
than possible? Let us look then back
into the countenance of God and hurl our laughter as we subvert his
givings for our
whimsey!
”

Fanshawe let the echos of the words melt
away.

“But as bearing with all great gifts, a
price must be exacted—”

“What? My soul?”

Wraxall laughed out of the darkness. “You
squandered
that
some while back, my friend.”

“What, then? What’s the price?” Fanshawe
demanded, no longer even caring.

“Something thee wilt freely give, so am I
certain. Alas, our disquisition be nearly as its end. Naught
remains save for this,” and then Wraxall leaned out of the
darkness, green eyes ablaze. But the image of the necromancer’s
face seemed to switch back and forth between glimpses of vibrant
youth and great age. His hair shifted from dark to gray, back and
forth; his posture stooped, then straightened, and the hand on
Fanshawe’s shoulder wavered between that of a teenager and that of
a hundred-year-old man. That same hand felt
hot
through
Fanshawe’s jacket, and then he noticed tendrils of white smoke
wafting off Wraxall’s head. “‘Tis history you and I shall make—a
most
evil
 history,” and then Wraxall began to whisper
into Fanshawe’s ear…

««—»»

The moment felt like weeks. Fanshawe stood
dazed in the barely lit foyer. Wraxall was gone, but a second
later, a figure stepped out of the blocks of darkness: Rood.

Rood opened the front door, showing the
twilit street.

“I don’t know what to do next!” Fanshawe
exclaimed in a whisper.

Rood’s smile was like a mask of wax. “Just
but one test remains—”

“
Bullshit!
” Fanshawe’s voice boomed.
“I already passed the fuckin’ test!”

“A challenge most final of thy fiber, sir.
Into the even-time you must now go—”

“But the sheriff! His men!”

“—and ride thy must upon the night-wind with
all things born of darkness. Should thy heart be not as stoutly
black as it must, then thou shalt die most horrible, as did the
interloper called Karswell.”

“This is a pile of
shit!
I don’t know
what you’re talking about!”

“Yet if thy heart be so black as to please
ye Benefactor, then back to thy strange time thou wilt be proper
put—”

“But not before thee hath screamed to
rouse the dead from their graves,
” another voice floated
from the darkness. In increments, Evanore emerged. It was only the
icy moonlight from the door that revealed her: nude, curvaceous,
her bosom thrusting, and her grin wet. “Would thou take thy leave
without so much as a bid of farewell?” she asked coyly. Her white
hands reached out to him. Like the last glimpses of Wraxall,
Evanore’s aspect changed, shifting, from adolescence to adulthood,
and back again. With each impossible metamorphosis, her blood-red
hair lengthened down to her buttocks, then shrunk back up again. It
was as though Fanshawe’s presence here had triggered some kind of
flux that was leaking in from various time periods, which made
sense once he thought about it. The same tendrils of smoke wafted
off of the woman’s perfect skin. With one step, she was lissome and
slim, but with each step after that her belly grew and grew till it
looked close to rupture, only to shrink back down to flatness.
Fanshawe stood still as a post in the ground as he watched, and he
didn’t even flinch when one manner or another of Evanore wrapped
her arms around him. Her mouth found his at once, her tongue
invading; as she pressed closer, Fanshawe sickeningly felt her
belly expand and contract, expand and contract, to mimic each
infernal pregnancy. Then—

“Oww!” Fanshawe roared.

Evanore was giggling, her mouth red. She’d
bitten down hard on his lower lip, drawing blood. Fanshawe’s
reaction was faster than instantaneous, his rage leapt up and he
clamped his hands about her throat and squeezed for all he was
worth. Harder, harder. No conscious thoughts entered his head, just
the reflex…

Harder, harder.

Evanore’s face turned pink, then blue, yet
all through Fanshawe’s act, she smiled. Now the nameless flux
showed the smoking brand-marks of crosses burned into her breasts,
belly, and pubis; he could hear them
sizzling.
Then her face
and the flesh on her head disappeared in strips as if torn by an
invisible beast, then…

Fanshawe’s hands were clamped to the throat
of a corpse stripped of almost all its flesh.

“To thee I bid my love forever,” the corpse
said but it was with a voice like someone talking and vomiting at
the same time, after which came an even more loathsome laugh.

Rood’s strong hands shoved Fanshawe out the
door. The door clicked shut, then its bolt snapped closed. Fanshawe
stood alone in the street; he glanced terrified back and forth.
Moonlight streamed down on him.
Where did they go?
but the
question was answered a moment later: