An agreement with a witch

A three-rapped knock came at the door, opening a hair’s width a moment later to allow Kiv’s voice to enter the room.

“Visitor for you, sir.”

“Send him in,” Whitmore responded, flicking a hand lazily and turning a page in the book he’d been reading. The door opened wider, and the sound of heels clicking against the floor set something loose in Whitmore.

A short woman stepped in, a tight red dress hugging her curves and a golden collar dangling from two of her manicured fingernails. The door closed behind her, and Whitmore shut the book instantly.

It’s her.

Whitmore abruptly stood up from his chair, sweat collecting on his brow. He knew she could hear his heart’s pace quickening, so it was useless to try and conceal it.

“Ms. LaCour! I wasn’t—um—I wasn’t expecting you so soon!”

“Clearly,” she replied. She scrutinized the room, glancing at the papers scattered across the desk, books strewn across the floor, the drapes disheveled on the window. A look of distaste ghosted her features, which only worsened the case for Whitmore’s already-sweaty underarms.

“If you did, maybe you’d try to tidy up the place.”

“I’ve, um, been a bit…what do you want?”

“Well, you know how us witches are.” She began swinging the collar around her pointer, her eyes locked on Whitmore’s and her bloodred lips in a smirk. “We can’t go so long without our patrons. And it’s been…” She counted on her fingers. “…almost five months since I’ve called in a favor!”

Whitmore prayed his next words didn’t come out as a squeak.

“Would you like to sit down?”

“I’d love to.” LaCour moved languidly towards the desk, took a seat, and crossed her heels on top of Whitmore’s desk.

“So, Ms. LaCour—”

“Gods, Edward,” she moaned, rolling her eyes. “I tell you every time. Just call me Bebe.”

“Alright…Bebe,” he said, testing out the name on his lips. It felt wrong for the woman – witch, he corrected himself – sitting in front of him. The name was too light, too inconsequential; a woman named Bebe wouldn’t hurt a fly. But witches flipped the script. He’d seen her catch a wasp between her fingers, crush it without a second thought, and wipe her hands on her skirt. Smiling.

“What is it you need?” Whitmore asked.

Bebe took a deep breath. Closed her eyes. Removed her crossed legs from the desk and leaned forward.

“I need a place to stay for the next month.”

He blinked. She stared back.

“That’s it?” he asked quietly.

“That’s it.” Bebe smiled sadly. Whitmore couldn’t believe what he found in the green eyes he’d known to be so cold: genuineness.

Whitmore cleared his throat.

“If-if you don’t mind me asking, miss—”

“Why?” She sighed, reclining in the chair and eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“The witch council is…upset with me right now. They found me in a compromising position with a species we aren’t supposed to acquaint ourselves with,” she explained.

“Was it like a—a werewolf or something?”

“Well, if you must know,” she said, returning her gaze to him once more, “It was a mermaid.” Something flashed behind Bebe’s eyes – there, and then gone. Whitmore doubted anything being there at all.

“It’s likely that this will be our last meeting because the witch council never seems to find anyone innocent in cases like mine.” She laid the golden collar on the desk, a symbol that had always seemed like a sentence to Whitmore. But it didn’t appear as menacing now. It was a choice, rather than a demand.

Whitmore looked to the only thing still standing on his desk – a framed, faded photograph of him and a bespectacled man with unruly black hair. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other; the other man was seemingly planting a kiss on Whitmore’s cheek, but it was hard to discern. If someone asked, Whitmore always said he was just whispering a secret. His wife had told him to get rid of it, but Whitmore never could.

Whitmore lifted the collar to his neck and fastened it into place. A blinding light filled the room for just a moment, solidifying his agreement. When the light dimmed, Bebe’s mouth formed a small grin. His heart softened.

“Thank you,” Bebe said.

“What will happen to you?” Bebe looked to the ceiling once more, crossing her arms.

“Exile. Stripped of my abilities. The witch council is not forgiving.”

“But—but that’s awful!” Whitmore cried, standing. “No one should be able to tell you who to love!” He started breathing heavily now, angry.

“Whoa, whoa, calm down,” she placated, raising and lowering her hands in a gesture for him to sit once more. “I knew this was a risk.” Her concerned expression quickly turned mischievous, her eyes scanning his face.

“Why do you care if I lose my abilities? You’re out of the deal now. You’re free.” Whitmore opened his mouth to respond, only to find that nothing came out. He closed it, and his cheeks reddened.

“No response, huh?” Bebe let out a bark of laughter. “I thought so.”

“Well, remember our deal. The commonfolk wouldn’t be too happy to learn that their mayor’s fortune came from a witch, now would they?”

Bebe pushed back her chair and stood, walking to the door.

“Show me to my quarters?” she asked, a smile forming on her red lips.

“O-of course,” Whitmore replied, quickly moving to open the door for her.

“Kiv,” Whitmore called. “Please go fetch me some more turtlenecks from Madame Franks. Mediums please.”

“But sir, it’s summertime—”

“Do not question me!” roared Whitmore.

#fantasy #fantastical #witch #witches