“So I can have anyone I like?”
“You don’t have to like them.”
“Ah. Like, uh . . . like that black woman with the braids?” David pointed across the crowded hotel ballroom.
“Sure, if you get off on fake breasts.”
“They’re fake?”
“You can have whoever you want. However you want. Whenever you want.”
David’s grin broadened. “OK, I’m impressed. That is one of the
all-time great pickup lines. “Now, what do you really do?”
“Exactly what I said. Look, here’s my card.”
“Mm. Melissa Natrova, Witch. Spells, charms, sundry magick . . . witches have web sites?”
“Fax machines, too. Does my offer interest you?”
David examined her. She was petite and pretty. Her unlined face was bordered with copper-red hair that brought out the fire in her amber eyes. “You don’t look like a witch.”
“When I come to these things as a 112-year-old hag, I don’t get hit on nearly so much.”
David blinked. He would have taken her for 30, tops. Her butt didn’t look a day over 28.
“Why does a witch come to a singles night?”
She shrugged. “Same reason lawyers gather at a train wreck. I probably do two-thirds of my business at events like this.”
“People actually pay for your help?”
“People pay for this.” She swung her arm to indicate the awkward
attendees, the faux-hip banners, the busy cash bar. She looked at him.
“You, for instance. Surely there’s some more entertaining way you could
be spending this evening.”
“What’s wrong with pleasure?”
“Nothing’s wrong with pleasure. What’s wrong is wasting hours here,
hoping to find someone drunk or desperate enough to take you home. Why
not use my services? You can skip the deep discussions — just tell ’em
to bend over. And forget about these leftovers.” She waved her hand
dismissively at the crowd. “You can have anyone: your neighbor, your
neighbor’s daughter, your boss. Your wish is their command.”
“My boss is a man.”
“Sex is sex.”
“Let me rephrase that. My boss is a bipolar egomaniac who reads Dilbert for management tips.”
“Fine. But do you take my point?”
David couldn’t hold back a sheepish smile. “Yeah, I take your point. But how do I know you’re a witch?”
“The business card didn’t do it? I had those suckers printed in four colors.”
He looked at her.
“OK, OK. One free spell coming up.”
She
closed her eyes. Something fled her face and, for an instant, he could
see a century in her skin. She took three slow, deep breaths. She
murmured half a dozen words that weren’t anything like English.
“Oh.” David stiffened, then stood statue still, the warmth of the sensation surging, spreading.
“Sweet, hey? Imagine if that was a real tongue.”
A minute drifted past. The witch spoke three short words and opened her eyes.
“So, David. Would you like to sign up?”
A shudder slipped through David’s body. He rubbed the back of his neck gently. His eyes met hers.
“What’s the price?” he said warily. “My soul?”
“There’s six billion people in the world nowadays. A soul goes for
thirty-five bucks, give or take — one of those supply-demand things. I
work for real money.”
“What’s real money?”
“The standard one-day all-you-can-eat package is yours for just four thousand.”
“Dollars?” He sensed heads turning. The witch nodded cheerfully.
“Do the math. A good call girl will run you three hundred an hour in
this city. That’s twenty-four hundred a day, for one person in one
room. I offer you everyone in the world, everywhere in the world. Plus
exceptional customer support.”
He realized he believed her.
“I don’t have anything like four thousand in cash.”
She grinned and straightened up, suddenly more businesslike. “Who
does? I take credit cards, EFTs, checks written on major in-city banks,
and stock held in your name. Oh, and bullion.”
“Visa OK?”
“Absolutely. Here’s a contract. It covers the details of what we’ve been chatting about.”
David laid out the pages on a nearby table and started to read.
Several clauses later, he looked up. “What do I do to put a spell on
someone?”
“Ready? Make fists, then stick out your index fingers.
Put your left index finger between your lips, touching your teeth. And
put your right index finger in your ear. Perfect.”
“I have to do this every time I want sex?” he mumbled.
“Oh, no. You do this when you want to amuse me. For sex, you need a talisman.”
David slowly lowered his hands. “Does your smartass attitude ever cost you customers?”
“Not so’s I’ve noticed. The service basically sells itself — men’ll do anything to avoid foreplay.”
She searched through her portfolio. “Ah, here we go.” She produced a
small cloth bag, blue as an August sky. It glittered in the
incandescent light. She loosened the drawstring, reached inside, and
brought out a green sphere a little larger than a marble. She placed it
on his palm.
He saw that the charm’s surface was rough, pocked, cratered like the moon. He turned it slowly in his fingers.
“Keep that close by. When the mood strikes, hold it and say avrat taldor. Whoever hears will mind your words.”
“Avrat taldor?”
“Close enough for magic. If you forget the phrase, just remember it’s ‘rodlat tarva’ backward.”
David pushed the charm into his pocket and went back to the contract.
He read slowly, keeping place with the edge of his hand. When he was
done, he said, “Diseases?”
“Two fifty gets you the STD rider,
which keeps you, and anyone involved with you, safe from bugs. No pus,
no fuss. The rider also includes PPP — Pregnancy Protection for
Partners.” She handed him another page.
He read it carefully. “Looks OK.”
“Good. Fill in your personal information here and here, and sign
here. Give me your card and I’ll run it while you finish off.”
“Do I need to sign in blood?”
“No, it photocopies poorly. Here’s a pen…”
From “Charmed, I’m Sure,” by Eric Albert, in my new collection of erotic novellas, Three Kinds of Asking For It.
To read her journal (and her interview with Albert): http://susiebright.blogs.com/susie_brights_journal_/
(I thought this might be a fun departure from my usual posts ;)