13:5
“They found us out.”
The words resolved out of the soup of unconsciousness. Al fought to open eyelids that felt leaden. The image of a mouse swam in and out of his vision. Then it split. No, it didn’t split. It was a second mouse.
Apparently they sensed his semi-alert state because they stopped singing. Then two more mice joined the two weighing down his collarbone. Small hands patted his neck and cheek and then the four mice all sang, “They found us out!”
His mind instantly placed the song. Poor Man’s Poison. Give and Take. Then it supplied the remainder of the lyrics.
“They’re,” his voice cracked as he tried to sing back at the mice. He swallowed. The saliva seemed to catch on dry surface of his throat. “Outside the door?”
He forced the lyrics over his dry lips. The mice leaned in so their whiskers whispered over the skin of his throat and jaw. “Right outside the door,” they echoed, their voices vibrating against his skin.
Beneath the sound of their voices Al heard footfalls on the wood floor of the hall leading back to the office where he lay. Clack, clack, clack. The sound of high heels striking the maple floorboards.
Al’s heart sank. “Thank you,” he whispered to the mice then closed his eyes and lay back against the pillow under his head.
He didn’t remember coming in to the apartment off the manager’s office of Stripped. Maybe Ben had carried him in here? Didn’t matter. He was glad he didn’t wake up on the floor.
He wasn’t sure he had the ability to handle Mary if he’d been in such a vulnerable position. Not that a bed was ideal but still better than the floor. Being that low would give her too much advantage. As it was he’d still be at risk lying in a bed, but she’d have to climb up on it to really get at him with more than a hand or words.
He could handle her hand and her words. He had for longer than time’s memory though, sadly, not his own.
As the sound of footfalls drew closer and he heard the sound of the door easing open he steeled himself for what was to come. He had to play this just right. He still wasn’t sure what was the best angle on this. Let her think he was unaware of the return of his Spirit? Adopt innocence and confusion? Or acknowledge the change? Perhaps with a heavy dose of fear and sorrow for his quote-unquote loss.
Too bad he didn’t have more time. Or had time to think this out before Prairie helped him. But he hadn’t really put much faith in her ability to do so. Yes, he’d presented the idea to her with great confidence but after so many anos under Mary’s thumb? He’d learned to not hope. And because of that he’d failed, for the first time in a very long time, to have a plan. And a back up plan. And three contingency plans.
Guess he was just going to have to wing it. Read her, as he’d learned to do long ago. Perhaps, if he was careful, even weave some of his Magick around her to convince her to believe him. It wouldn’t be hard, if he let her come to whatever conclusion she wanted to. As long as it was far, far, far from the truth. If it wasn’t? Well, then he’d find out just how good a liar he was.
Considering Mary’s conviction that every thought that flitted through her mind and every word that fell from her lips would be supported by those around her, he just had to feed her ego and tell her what she wanted to hear and he’d get out of this unscathed. Or as unscathed as he could hope.
There was no more time to consider his options as Mary walked through the door of the apartment and made a beeline for where he lay. With his eyes closed he couldn’t see her approach but he felt it, like a dark cloud heavy with rain. The pressure grew more intense the closer she came until he felt like he was held down by a weighted blanket as she drew to a stop beside the bed.
He forced himself to not flinch as she pressed a soft, cold, slightly clammy palm to his forehead. Instead he made a show of rousing at her touch, turning slightly in her direction and opening his eyes the barest slit. He didn’t have to fake the tearing of his eyes as the light from the gas lamp on the nightstand, diffuse as it was, impacted his retinas.
“Go away, you dreadful little things!”
Al felt the mice clustered on his body vacate. He mourned the loss of their support, but he didn’t blame them. If he could his ass would be fleeing the bed too.
The mattress dipped as Mary planted herself on it. She pressed the fullness of her hip against Al’s side, making her presence very plain. It was an intimate act, undeniable in its simplicity, speaking of the lack of boundaries she placed between them. He guessed when part of her had been attached to his being like a bloated leech for anos it blurred the lines between them. He couldn’t recall when she’d last sought permission to touch him, when he’d had full autonomy of his body.
He felt the heat of her before she smoothed her hand over his forehead, brushing back the loose strands of hair clinging to his damp skin. “Oh, dear! You poor thing!”
It didn’t elude Al’s notice that she called both he and the mice things. He’d come to the conclusion that was her general view on anyone not her. Things that either enhanced or didn’t enhance her experience. He guessed he was lucky he fell into the first category. Still, he didn’t miss the probe of her Magick, flowing from her hand and into his head and then along the channels of his Spirit. Confirming the change would be his guess.
Slowly, he turned his head slightly and lifted his leaden eyelids just enough that he could see her. The haze over his eyes made it difficult but really he didn’t need clear vision to see her clearly. After so many anos together her features and form were almost as familiar to him as his own.
Rather than meet her concerned gaze, he let his attention drift over her body from where her rounded hip pressed to his side and then out in lazy spirals. Concentric circles registering details with lazy detachment.
Objectively she might be attractive, but Al couldn’t look at her without applying the lens of their history and under that lens she was hideous.
The best way Al could find to describe her figure was twenty-five pounds of fat in a five-pound burlap sack. Those that loved curves would compare her to ancient fertility goddesses. But Al just saw her as a manikin sewed by a negligent hand, the kind of dolly some necromancers used to curse their enemies; sloppy, lumpy, seams bulging around wide stitches.
Charcoal strokes on rough canvas her facial features shifted subtly, skipping in places as charcoal did when hitting slub and weave. It wasn’t an ugly effect, per se. Some artists might even go for such a look, seeking to portray the emotional fragility of their subject.
Her hair was—well, Al was okay with admitting her hair was nice. Long, thick, chestnut. But after you had that shit whipping you in the face while she crouched over you like a hungry goblin, it lost some of its shine. Most of its shine. All. All of its shine.
He couldn’t see it without feeling it against his skin.
Her confidence radiated off her, a charisma that drew in most people. Hell, it definitely had drawn him in at one time. But then he’d gotten to know her and that appeal? It waned, negated by the way she treated anyone that wasn’t her. Or didn’t benefit her.
She was the queen of the love bomb. Smothering you with regard so you felt filled with it, like helium that left you bobbing behind her like a balloon on a string. When she loved you? Oh, she loved you. And when she didn’t? She moved on, severing that string and abandoning you until you shriveled, collapsing like that balloon.
If asked to describe Mary’s personality it was that of the cheerleader, popular in her teens, who had never needed to grow up. Raised by a distant mother and a doting father, she’d learned early how to act to get what she wanted from life. Part coquette, part Lolita; all self-loathing couched under a scrim of pampered princess. Painted canvas that rippled in subtle breezes, ruining the illusion if you focused on it.
It was the sort of attitude lionized by teens and frowned upon by adults, unless those adults grew up under the thumb of Queen Bees like Mary. Sadly there were many, many adults who had come up that way, enough that even as an adult Mary had floated through life, doing as she would with no thought to consequences as she had enough quote-unquote friends who made excuses for her behavior while secretly feeding their inner sadists as they watched the people Mary crushed.
Mary closed her fingers around either side of Al’s forehead, squeezing until he feared for the integrity of his temples, demanding he pull back from his thoughts and focus on her. With this firm grasp, she turned his head so he was forced to meet her blue-eyed gaze. The soft smile she gave him matched the soft look she gave him. It was full of concern and love and it made him want to throat punch her. But he kept his arms slack, his fingers loose under the sheet pulled up to his armpits.
“M–” he didn’t need to fake the weakness of his voice. He hadn’t known what to expect from the return of the splinter of his Spirit but being completely wrung dry hadn’t occurred to him. Stupidly he’d thought he’d feel energized because he was whole.
“Oh.” She tightened her hold on his head to the point of pain before releasing it to slide her hand down to smooth her palm over his cheek. “What happened, Allie?”
Allie. Ugh. Not for the first, last, or one-hundredth time he felt his Spirit retract at the endearment. Did he look like a fucking Allie?
Rather than stiffening beneath the touch of her fingers and endearment, he forced himself to turn his head slightly to press his cheek into the cup of her hand. At this sign of implied intimacy, she relaxed visibly, cocking her head to the side and deepening her smile. He suppressed the surge of satisfaction at this simple sign he had her snowed and drew a long breath through his nostrils, the air lifting his chest, then plastered on a dopey half-smile and blinked up at her.
Again the dilemma of his situation struck him. Keep her complacent, sure of her grasp on him? Until he could disappear? Or use his closeness and her delusional belief in his loyalty to help the heroes stop her?
Selfishly he was seriously leaning towards disappearing. But could he truly? What did he owe the heroes? Well, besides freeing him from Mary’s hold. And his implied promise of assistance. Less implied than agreed. Whatever. He’d broken a metric ton of promises over his long life. This one would just be one more. And yet—
Fuck Mary. Fuck her plans. Crushing them would go a way to repaying the debt she owed him for fucking violating him for so damned long.
A life evading Mary and Geppetto indefinitely – he had zero doubt she’d take his leaving well and one-hundred percent certainty she’d seek to crush him as she’d crushed so many of her rivals. Or a life where she didn’t exist? Was there really that much of a debate? Even if she remained in the world after her defeat he knew she’d be under a microscope, multiple parties watching her so she never fucked with the world again. And wouldn’t that be the ultimate revenge?
She’d become absolutely convinced of her invincibility living under the loose – read non-existent – control of the original heroes who trapped he, Mary, and Geppetto in this pretty prison. After just a short acquaintance with this new group of heroes, and a slightly longer time watching them from the shadows, he didn’t see them being anywhere near as nonchalant.
Yes, at this time, with the information he had, it made the most sense for him to assist the heroes in utterly and completely fucking this bitch.
Time to sell his continued compliance. Lucky he was a natural performer. When the line between truth and reality bled into fiction and lie long enough, it was very easy to sell the latter as the former.
Truth, it wasn’t a challenge for the liar Al had become under Mary’s thumb. To be clear he was a liar by nature. It was a skill and he had spent his life, from a very early age, honing it. His persuasion Magick made it easier once it manifested but he’d already had the basic skills down by then.
And now that Mary no longer had her claws in his Spirit he was able to use it against her. He dug deep into his depleted core and spooled out what little Magick was there, weaving it to the rhythm of his breaths. That was the thing. Everyone thought he needed music to weave his influence. He didn’t. Just a rhythm. Breath. Heartbeat. They made for a very subtle touch. It was that touch he applied now, letting the Magick travel up from his core to his face where her hand pressed.
Once he felt it latch on he focused his gaze on her. “Mary?”
“Allie? What happened to you?” She repeated in a slow voice like she was talking to someone mentally challenged.
Al winced, cringing subtly under her touch. Was that too much? It only took a very quick read of her softening expression to say nope.
“I don’t know.” He stopped, swallowed to wet his dry throat. Damn, he was fucking sapped. “I was fine and then,” he gave Mary a limpid look that she seemed to eat with a spoon. To further this reaction he spooled a tiny bit more influence from his core and into her.
He gave a pathetic little hitch of breath and parted his lips as if he was going to say more but fuck was he going to. The less detail in a lie, the less to remember. The life in which he learned that lesson was almost forgotten; the armor it provided came in handy regularly.
Mary’s lower lip pouted. “It hurt.”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology came from long habit. Better to appease her than risk a flip to Bad Mary. Like there was a good one. Whatever. As expected she took the apology as her due then moved on.
“Whatever it was, it knocked me out.” Not untrue.
Mary sniffled and her pout deepened. “Are you able to get up?”
Al collapsed his chest, curving his shoulders forward, and gave her his most pitiable expression. “I– I don’t think so.”
“Well, darn! Geppetto and I finally found a seer who was able to get past that pesky Magick around the items we lost and told us where they are!”
“Oh?”
Al nuzzled her cheek into the hand she still held against his face. In his mind he looked like a truly pathetic kitten but it seemed to make Mary happy if he could judge by the look she leveled on him. Parted lips, gentle eyes full of love. She drew her hand up, drifting her fingers over his skin as if petting the kitten he compared himself to.
“That awful giant of a man with the man purse!”
Like she didn’t know the name of everyone who opposed her. Denying someone things like a name was a patented tactic of hers, stripping them of their individuality and letting her make them an object defined by her to fit within her worldview. Classic fucking narcissist. Her calling him “Allie” was an example of that.
Al feigned confusion before venturing, “Tom Dempsey?”
Her expression brightened. She patted his cheek again. “Man Purse!”
“The seer make it?”
“It was a difficult Seeing.”
Well, that was a no. Probably. Still he pushed.
“They survived it?”
Mary giggled. The sound was so young and sweet, in direct opposition of the nature of her soul. “Of course they didn’t!” Her eyes widened. “They unfortunately were too drained of energy. It was very sad.”
Yeah, more like they knew her plans. He no longer had a connection to her and yet he could clearly hear what she was thinking. So sad. Too bad. They had to die.
She leaned to the side, curling her hand around the edge of the sheet stretched across his chest. Pulling it up further she tucked it around his shoulders, effectively cocooning him and restraining his limbs. Joke was on her. He lacked the energy to lift a fucking finger, let alone his arm or his body. Still she seemed happy with her binding him as she gave his shoulder a squeeze then rose to her feet to stand beside the bed.
The light behind her cast her shadow over him. It stretched long and heavy, belying her slight height.
He didn’t have any more time to focus on the metaphor as she pulled back. “G and I will have to do this alone, I guess.”
“Do?” Again Al didn’t have to fake weakness in his voice. The longer they spoke the less energy he had. Grey started forming on the edges of his vision and he had to fight to focus his thoughts.
She clapped. A maniacal grin spread her lips and excitement sparkled in her gaze. “You know ARFA is insisting it can’t help us without the energy from those items. So, we are going to get them!”
By her tone it was clear she had absolutely no doubt she’d succeed.
Not if Al could help it.
“Luck.” His voice wobbled on the word. He closed his eyes and let his head sink into the pillow. Very carefully he pulled his energy back from her. Normally he might leave some of it. Its power would fade as she got further from him but it would linger long enough that he’d be able to insure she didn’t consider turning back. But, he had better uses for the Magick.
Her voice played over his senses as he fought the wobbling sensation in his skull that matched the rhythm of his pulse. “Oh, we don’t need luck, Allie!”
Her heels sounded on the floor as she walked away from the bed. Before Al could so much as feel a measure of relief they stopped and then sounded louder as she returned to the bed. Her hand pressed against his shoulder.
“I almost forgot to give you a proper goodbye!”
That was all the warning Al got before she was pressing her lips to his. He forced himself to relax, to accept the intimacy. Still he kept his lips closed against the sweep of her tongue. There was only so much he could suck up. Luckily she must have taken this as a sign on his exhaustion rather than any resistance to her appeal because she pulled back a moment later.
The sound of the door announced her departure from the room. Still he forced himself to wait until her footfalls on the floor faded away before he spooled out his Magick, letting it flow across the space until it found the mice hidden in the walls.
“Come, friends?” He whispered.
There was a scratch of claws on the floor and then he felt the weight of several mice joining him on the bed. He opened his eyes and peered down his length as they scampered up his legs and settled on his chest.
Drawing as much energy as he could into his limp limbs, he pushed his arm out of the cocoon of sheet and groped for the bedside stand. Or more specifically for the drawer in it.
Pulling open the drawer he routed around in it blindly until his fingers brushed a pen. He pulled it out and laid it on his chest then extracted a small piece of paper from the drawer. He was glad he kept writing materials in the drawer to capture ideas that came to him during sleep.
Once he had the paper on his chest as well he looked down at the mice. “I need help, friends.”
One of the mice scampered up his legs and sat down just below where he held the paper and pen. Then it gave a questioning peep.
“Take this to Regan and Maise’s home.”
Another peep and a head nod.
Al felt exhaustion dragging him under. The swimming in his head threatened to overwhelm. But he forced energy into his arm so he could lift the pen and scrawl “Dempsey” on the paper. He would have written more. It was his intention. But the exhaustion weighed down his limbs and oblivion called. The pen dragged off the paper, turning the “Y” into a scrawl that trailed away. Ink skipped over the sheet as his hand went slack and darkness claimed him.
Enter The Woods 