The Demon and the Broomstick
Othniel, devourer of the damned, stepped through the cat flap into the predawn darkness of the back yard. He smelled the air, his whiskers twitching as he searched for one specific scent. His dark gray fur blended in with the darkness, making him nearly invisible except for the small flashes of light on the necklace he held in his mouth. It belonged to Clara, the human he lived with, but he didn’t think she would miss it. The necklace had been a present from her ex, Trevor.
A flutter of feathers made him turn his head to the left. His informant alighted on the fence. Excellent. The raven had promised him a lead on the witch who had bound Othniel in his current form and beat him half to death when he refused to be her familiar. Brona. He had her to thank for the limp in his back left leg and he had a debt to repay to that evil cow. After three years of searching, could today be the day that bill finally came due?
He made his way to the foot of the fence and put the jewelry down on the ground. The raven watched it closely.
“Information first,” Othniel said, “payment second.” Ravens were good scouts, what with the bird’s eye view and all that, but they could be a bit, well, flighty. Othniel didn’t want to risk his informant losing focus.
The raven blinked, shifting her focus back to Othniel. “286 Westchester Lane.”
“And?”
“And what? You wanted to know where a witch lives and a witch lives there. I saw her myself. Now I’m telling you the address. Give me what you promised.”
So demanding. But, a bargain is a bargain and it went against his nature to break a deal. Othniel stepped back from the necklace, giving the raven room to claim her prize.
He considered the address the raven provided. He knew the street and it was not far. He shivered to think the witch could have been this close all along. He started walking.
After Brona nearly killed him, once he had recovered enough of his senses to cast a tracking spell, he discovered she had beaten him to the punch with a warding that hid her from him. Too bad she was clever. Otherwise, he would have dealt with her well before now and he would no longer be trapped in the form of a housecat.
In many ways, being a cat wasn’t bad. This form allowed him to be stealthy. He was agile and quick. His claws and teeth were sharp as daggers. And, when Clara scratched him just so on his rump, it felt more amazing than he ever would have dreamed.
On the down side, being stuck in one form limited his options. He used to like flying sometimes, or taking the form of a snake, or turning into righteous flames. Also, embarrassingly, Clara had gotten him neutered. He didn’t miss his balls as much as he would have guessed. He supposed that after a few millennia of hedonism, he had gotten a bit bored with certain delights of the flesh.
Half an hour later, he rounded the corner on the block that held house 286. He paused. He surveyed the block, looking for the magical trails and auras that were signs of a witch nearby. He saw telltale shimmers in the air, and especially on the sidewalk in front of 286. Yes, there was magic here, but when he sniffed the air he mostly got patchouli and sage without any lingering odor of brimstone or blood that indicated a dark witch.
He approached with caution. The house at 286 looked cheerful in the early light of dawn. The exterior had warm yellow paint with cream colored trim and houseplants showing in the windows. The front and back yards held dense herb gardens growing a variety of plants that were useful in spells: Lavender, chamomile, comfrey, mugwort, ridiculously spicy peppers, and a dozen others with properties that made them useful for magic.
A horseshoe hung over the front door and he sensed protective energy around the place. A witch lived here, to be sure, but she was one of those hippie types who liked to make things like charms for attracting good luck and teas to bring sweet dreams. No, this was not the house of a witch who summoned demons and tortured them.
He turned to leave. Within the hour, Clara’s alarm clock would buzz and she would feed him breakfast. She’d gotten a new brand of wet food recently. The salmon flavor had a nice zing to it. His mouth watered in anticipation.
Something at the corner of his peripheral vision caught his attention. A little haze of red. He walked over to it and as he got close, he smelled decay. Near the property line he found a spot with disturbed dirt. He dug and uncovered a leather pouch. A hex bag. He recognized the scent on the bag. Brona. Finally, he was getting somewhere.
He pawed the bag open and turned out a piece of parchment paper covered in arcane symbols, the stub of a black candle, and the decomposing body of a mouse. How quaint.
Othniel stared at the smelly little corpse, casting a simple spell. After a moment, it began to smoke. Another few moments and it turned into a small pile of ash and charred bones. He did the same with the parchment. With these two acts of incineration, the hex dissipated. The hippie witch’s finances were about to turn around for the better. He knew almost nothing about the witch living in this house except that she was the enemy of his enemy, and for that fact destroying the hex brought him satisfaction.
He kept the leather bag. It might help him track his foe.
When he returned to the condo, he hid the bag in the laundry room underneath a wadded-up towel that was forgotten in the corner. Clara never moved the towel. It had a layer of dust so thick that it just kind of blended into the beige carpet.
The clank of the coffee pot announced that Clara had started breakfast. He strolled into the kitchen. “Oh, there you are mister,” she said. He hopped up on one of the stools in the breakfast nook. She reached over and stroked along his spine, using just the right amount of pressure. It felt delicious. He purred, eliciting a smile from Clara. “And where have you been this morning, Phillip? Did you have a hot date with a pretty lady? Or maybe a handsome fellow? I mean, who am I to judge?”
She did this all the time, asking him questions as if she expected an answer. One of these days, he thought, he should reply. Then she’d really have something to talk about.
As for that name, Phillip, well everyone has errors in judgment sometimes. How was Clara to know how widely she missed the mark when choosing a name to call him? Phillip. Hilarious.
Clara opened up a can of cat food, salmon, and turned it over to plop the meaty contents into a dish for him. While he ate, she drank coffee and graded a few final assignments from her third grade class. Her version of grading involved stickers with either a smiley face or a frowny face. If an assignment really struck her fancy, she used two smiley stickers, or maybe three. Clara went through a lot of stickers.
He had no idea how she tolerated spending her days with the loud, sticky children. Repulsive. He’d rather spend the day wading through dismembered corpses. Hell knows he’d done it more than once.
On one memorable day about two years ago, Clara took him to school and introduced him to her class. He hissed at the children. One of them, a dumb little boy, reached out to touch him and Othniel swiped at the kid with his razor-sharp claws. Clara scolded him for that, but the bright side was that it put the kibosh on any further ideas of him interacting with the snot-nosed twerps.
Othniel had no idea what she saw in those little beasts, but that was what made her Clara. She saw the best in creatures, even him. He could never get too annoyed by her compassion after being the beneficiary of it.
Clara made herself a batch of scrambled eggs and scooped a spoonful into his bowl for him. While she ate, she told him about her lesson plan for the day, which included some math practice, a science experiment about the surface tension of water, and reading the brats a story. He hoped for something interesting, like “The Juniper Tree” by the brothers Grimm, but she picked something about a little girl looking for a lost lamb. Boring.
She talked about it with such enthusiasm that he almost cared for a moment. Clara had a power to make others care about things she cared about. And she cared about a lot. How did she find all that energy for caring about things? Children, recycling, welfare programs, community service, gardening, craft projects, homeless people, historic landmarks, little old ladies, and abandoned animals. She had the energy of three people and she poured it all into caring. It made Othniel tired just thinking about it. Or maybe he was tired from being up so early. A nap sounded good. He went into the living room and found himself a nice big patch of sunlight to lie down in.
He'd never napped in the old days. Before the witch, he’d never had the time. He’d had a busy schedule. Each day he’d had hellish trades to offer to those teetering on the edge of damnation, damned souls to collect, and damned souls to torment. He specialized in the damned who were violent. Murderers, rapists, and the like. Othniel collected them on their deathbeds and gave them the reward for their wickedness.
At first, the tormenting wasn’t so bad. Then the world got more crowded. Headquarters raised quotas and his workload just grew and grew until he felt like he had to rush each new ticket for collection and torture. He didn’t have time to deliver the quality of service he prided himself on because he spent so much time just keeping up with the volume.
He started to drift off to sleep, but his memory intruded. A night, three years ago. One moment he was whipping a murderer with a cat o’ nine tails and the next he was surrounded by a circle of fire. Adding insult to injury, he realized his form had changed. He tried to bellow with rage, but it came out as a yowl.
“Now, now” a woman’s voice said. “That’s no way to thank me.” She stepped close to the circle and the light of the flames danced in sharp relief against her sharp features. The witch looked to be about middle-aged, with short brown hair and a look to her like a rabid dog.
Beyond the circle, he saw asphalt and concrete. His unexpected prison was in the ruin of an old building, maybe a warehouse. Steel beams rusted above him and small patches of black night sky peeked through gaps in the roof. There was no sign of another living soul aside from him and his captor.
The fur along his spine stood on end. He tried to curse her, but it came out as a hiss.
“You should be grateful,” she said, “for giving you a one-of-a-kind opportunity. I am the most powerful witch alive today, and you are going to be my familiar. I am Brona and you will do my bidding.”
Most powerful? Please. Not even in the top ten. He had spent time with hundreds of witches, including a lovely and amorous lady he had spent a few memorable evenings with just this year. He had a pretty solid ranking of power and she vastly overestimated herself.
Besides, he would be a familiar over somebody’s dead body and that dead body would not be his.
However, he was dismayed to discover that although her power was nowhere near as great as she imagined, she was just dumb enough to be clever. The spell she had chosen held him fast.
Othniel writhed and lunged, trying to rush the blazing barrier. He tested it time and again, looking for weakness. The fire scorched his gray fur, singeing it back to his skin. For the first time in his existence, he felt pain from flame. He retreated to the center of the circle, panting.
Brona smiled. “Have you gotten that out of your system? Are you ready to behave?”
He tried to stare her down. In his natural form, his stare made a very effective weapon. She ignored it. She started talking about the reasons why he should want to serve her. He spat at her.
She walked away from the fire and retrieved something from the shadows. When she returned, he saw it was a long wooden broomstick. She returned to him and lifted it slightly.
“Agree to serve me,” she said.
He hissed at her.
She swung the broomstick. In his natural form, he would have laughed at the puny weapon. However, in that moment he was a small mortal creature and the impact knocked him flat. Pain flashed across his ribs and back from where the broomstick made contact. He screamed, as much in surprise as in pain.
“Serve me,” she said again.
He bared his teeth.
She hit him again and again. Each time making the same demand. When one of her swings made the bone in his leg snap with a loud crack, she smiled. His movements became more frantic. He scrabbled around the perimeter of his prison, desperately searching for some spot where the line of flame was broken. Even a millimeter would do, but she had been thorough.
“Agree,” she said. Her voice sounded like ice water.
He yowled and made a useless swipe in her direction with his claws.
Her eyes narrowed. She stretched the broomstick toward him slowly. Exhausted, he struggled in vain to get away. She pressed the edge of the stick against his ribs hard, pinning him. Then she started to push him toward the flames. Othniel meowed, the sound was pitiful, even in his own ears. The heat grew more intense against his skin. He tried to turn away, but he was trapped. His shoulder was closest. What was left of his fur there scorched and smoked.
“Stop it!” a voice yelled. A shape ran into the light and bowled into the witch, knocking her down. Before the witch had time to recover, a woman reached down, grabbed him, and ran. Behind them, the witch got to her feet and began to run after them.
Othniel’s rescuer turned the corner and he saw a car with its door hanging open. She jumped into the driver’s seat, put Othniel in her lap, slammed the door and sped off, leaving the witch behind.
Once they had driven far enough for the woman to feel like they were out of danger, she stopped the car. She turned on the interior light of the car and looked him over. He remembered seeing blood, his blood, on her pants. There was a lot of it.
“Oh honey,” she murmured, “you need help.”
He tried to shift his form back to his natural self. In his natural form, it would only take an instant to heal. Nothing. The spell that bound him in this shape still held. He tried to stand, but his legs refused to hold him up.
“Shh,” the woman said. “You’re safe now. I’m Clara. I’ll help you.”
What happened next was a blur. He remembered a cold metal table, the smell of antiseptic, and prodding fingers. Then came a small sting and darkness. In hindsight, he realized Clara took him to a veterinary clinic. At that moment, though, all he knew was relief from the pain.
In the weeks that followed, Clara tended to him. She stroked him gently, caressing the parts of his body that weren’t burned or mangled. She spoke to him with kind words and gave him medications. Over time, he healed. Clara kept talking to him kindly and giving him caresses. He realized he liked it. So he created a magical ward to hide her and himself from Brona and he stayed.
In the present, Clara interrupted his reverie by reaching down to scratch his chin. “Goodbye handsome boy. Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m out.”
If only she knew.
After Clara left, Othniel abandoned his plan of napping.
He went out to try and pick up Brona’s trail from the house on Westchester. He searched for a scent or a trace of magic that showed where she went.
Instead, he found the raven. The raven was focused on pecking at a cigarette butt on the sidewalk and didn’t see Othniel sneak up on her. He pounced, pinning her to the concrete.
“You found the wrong witch,” Othniel said. “I want a refund, or I’ll be having a poultry fricassee for my dinner.” He flexed his claws, allowing the sharp ends to prick into the bird’s chest.
“That was just my first try,” the raven protested. “This one was the right age and the right description. Give me another chance.” Othniel considered. A live raven that owed him a debt was more useful than a dead raven. Besides, Clara had that new cat food and the salmon flavor was a lot nicer than stringy raven. He eased his hold on the raven. “Another try,” he said. “For free. And only because you got lucky. The witch I’m looking for has been here. She may come back. I want you to keep an eye on this place in case she does.”
“Done and done,” the raven agreed quickly.
Othniel released her. Together, the two of them circled the yellow house, searching for any sign Brona had come back. Nothing. Still, when he headed for home, he felt optimistic. Although he had not found Brona yet, he had gotten closer. Having the raven on lookout increased the chances of getting a hit soon.
He was almost to his cat flap when he scented something in the air that gave him pause. Stale Salem cigarette smoke, dollar store cologne, and fry oil. He recognized the combination of odors even though he had never encountered the person himself. When Clara saved Othniel, she still had a few things around the condo—a jacket, an old T-shirt. Remnants of Trevor that held his scent.
Othniel leaped up on the fence and looked out toward the street in front of the condo. There he was, parked in a rusty heap of a car. Trevor stared at Clara’s condo and chain-smoked for half an hour before driving away. Othniel was good at reading people’s intentions, and he could read Trevor’s like a neon billboard.
Great, just as Othniel finally started closing in on getting his life, his power, and his true shape back, it was all about to go pear-shaped for Clara. Othniel didn’t know what, specifically, Trevor was up to, but he had a good idea of the broad strokes. Whatever Trevor was about to do, it was going to get ugly.
That night, he kept an eye on Clara, watching for any indication that she knew something was amiss. At first, it was a weekday evening like any other. Dinner. Working on lesson plans. Watching dumb online videos of people making cakes. Dumb mortal diversions.
Othniel paced on the bookshelves for a while, trying to ease his restlessness, then he batted experimentally at a ceramic figurine of a pig. Tap, tap, tap. The porcelain pig scooted toward the edges of the bookshelf. Tap. The pig’s front right foot reached out into space. Othniel told himself to walk away. He had more important things to do, like keep watch over the house.
Tap. The pig’s back right foot was over the edge now too. This was foolishness, really. It was just a silly little knickknack. Why did he even… Tap. The pig fell and thudded into the carpet. Clara looked over and sighed. “Why can’t you leave things alone, sweetie?” She picked it up and inspected it. “At least it didn’t get damaged.” She waved her finger in front of his nose and tsked at him. Othniel turned away and pretended to inspect his paw. He told himself he wasn’t ashamed of his behavior. He wasn’t.
Clara scooped him up and brought him back to the sofa with her. She held him in her lap and scratched between his shoulder blades until he fell asleep.
At a little past nine o’clock, someone knocked on the door.
Clara frowned and opened a screen on her computer that connected to her doorbell video camera. Her frown deepened and her face flushed. Othniel could practically see the adrenaline hit her bloodstream. His fur stood on end in a sympathetic response. Clara sat frozen, looking at Trevor.
Trevor pounded on her door again, this time louder. “Open up, Clara, I know you’re in there.”
She pressed a button to activate the microphone that went with the camera system. “Go away,” she said.
“Don’t be rude,” he replied. “I just want to talk. You owe it to me to talk.” He sounded peevish, like a toddler insisting on more ice cream.
“You didn't want to talk when you stole the money I was saving for a new transmission. You didn’t want to talk when you gave me a black eye, and you didn’t want to talk when you cheated on me with Linda. I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you now.”
“Come on,” Trevor whined. “I’ve changed. I just want to make it all up to you.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a bedraggled rose. “I want to make things right.”
Othniel believed that like he believed the moon is really green cheese.
Clara hesitated. Uh oh.
Othniel walked nonchalantly across her keyboard, stepping on the key that shut down the connection to the camera. Clara shooed him away and tapped at the computer to restore the feed. During the delay, Trevor pounded again at the front door.
“Come on. Just talk to me. Don’t be a bitch.”
Ah, there it was, the true Trevor coming out.
Clara keyed the microphone. “Go away or I’m calling the cops. I’ll give you to the count of three and I’m dialing.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“One,” Clara said with the same calm authority she used on unruly students.
“Clara, just give me a chance.”
“Two.”
“Hear me out. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“Three. I’m calling the police now.”
He dropped the rose and stomped on it as he turned. “You’re such a bitch!” Trevor yelled as he walked away.
Clara kept the video feed up, watching him walk to his car. She closed it only after the car drove off. She reached out to turn off the feed with a shaking hand.
Humans have a saying they like: “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” However, in Othniel’s experience, it was more like “an asshole denied.” This was not over. Not yet.
He butted his head against Clara’s side and rubbed his body against her to remind her that she had someone on her side.
Clara barely slept that night, tormented by memory and Trevor’s sudden reappearance. Othniel curled up next to her in bed and made a great, rumbling purr through the night as the dark hours crept by.
The next day, Othniel talked with the raven. He gave her a description of Trevor and an address where Trevor lived. Othniel’s powers were limited these days, but he still had enough juice for a quick locator spell. The raven had a big family and promised to recruit them. By the afternoon, he had gained a dozen pairs of watchful eyes for the bargain price of one pack of hotdogs and a carton of cigarettes. The tobacco was good for nests, the raven told him when he raised an eyebrow at the request. It was a natural insect deterrent.
While Othniel waited for reports of either Trevor or Brona, he began gathering materials. He needed a few last things for the spell to release him from the witch’s binding that kept him in his current shape. Some of the materials, like a red candle and chalk for drawing the sigils, he’d collected right after Clara nursed him back to health. Others needed to be fresh to be effective.
He also got materials for a warding spell. He thought about the house on Westchester. The witch who lived there had a great garden. At least a few of the ingredients he needed were growing in her yard.
When he arrived at the house, he got an itchy feeling in his nose. He looked around and spotted a raven. He motioned for it to come over and it glided to him. This must be one of the cousins. It was slightly smaller than the other raven.
“Something unusual has been this way,” Othniel said.
“I’ve been here all day,” the raven replied. “All I’ve seen is a couple of teenagers, the witch who lives here, and some dumb dog.”
Dog. Yes, that must be the scent tickling his sinuses. “Tell me about the dog. What did it do?”
“It went to the corner of the yard, there,” the raven pointed with its beak, “and it sniffed around. Then it peed in the grass and went away.” The raven gestured to the spot where Othniel had dug up the hex bag. Interesting. He went to the spot to pick up the dog’s scent. The first odors he got were the expected combination of fur, dirt, and kibble, but then he got a whiff of brimstone. He smelled deeper. The dog was a big one and female. It also had an undertone of Brona’s scent.
Othniel headed in the direction the dog had walked, following her trail. He went a couple of blocks and the scent suddenly disappeared. His tail twitched with irritation. He hunted for the odor of a car. If the dog got in a car, he could track the car. He went into the street, searching. There! He found it.
Othniel followed the car’s scent half-way across town to a small, nondescript ranch-style house. By the time he reached it, his bum leg was protesting loudly and his progress was slow. As he approached, the smell of the dog grew stronger. The hint of brimstone from the dog turned into a pervasive stench. The average human, or cat, couldn’t sense it, but to one who was sensitive to it, the odor was overwhelming.
Othniel saw a flash of movement. Before he could react, a big dark shape slammed into him. The dog bowled him over, knocking him off his feet. Huge strong jaws closed over his throat and squeezed.
Othniel clawed at his assailant, desperately reaching for the beast’s eyes in the hope that blinding her would loosen the grip. He twisted and squirmed, trying to find an angle that would allow him to escape, but he was held fast. His vision blurred as he struggled for breath.
He was terrified, but also furious. How dare this dog rob him of his vengeance. And so close to his prize!
He marshalled his last breath and gasped out an incantation of protection. The grip on his throat loosened. Then the dog let go. He bolted, climbing a nearby tree so fast he blurred as he ran.
The dog walked up slowly, then raised her head to look at him. A look of recognition dawned on her face. “Othniel?”
Othniel recognized something familiar in the way she cocked her head. “Ranadel?”
The dog’s tail wagged. “It’s good to see you again. I just wish it was under better circumstances.” She backed away from the tree, giving him space to come down. He climbed down cautiously, ready to run again at the first hint she still had a taste for his flesh. Ranadel laid down on the ground, making herself as non-threatening as possible.
Othniel reached the foot of the tree and took a closer look at Ranadel. A dozen different scars crisscrossed along her ribs and one eye was cloudy from an injury. Brona hadn’t gotten any kinder since he met her last. “I see she was more successful with her summoning the second time around,” Othniel said.
“Actually, I’m the fourth. You were the first. She killed the second and the third when they refused her. Neither were quick deaths, either. She told me all about them in vivid detail when she summoned me and when she beat me into submission.” Ranadel lowered her head. “I was a coward. I agreed to be her slave.”
Clara must have rubbed off on him more than he knew, because in that moment he felt sympathy rather than disgust. Othniel said, “I just got lucky. I got rescued.”
Then it all came out in a gush. He told her about Clara saving him, about his life since that night, about his plans for revenge, and he even told her about Trevor. In turn, Ranadel told him about how Brona beat her for every small infraction or just for it being Thursday. Once, Ranadel tried to turn on her, but Brona had anticipated it and put a curse on her where any injury she caused to Brona was reflected treble on her. Ranadel tried to choke Brona in her sleep and nearly died with the effect of the spell. That was the last time Ranadel tried to harm her. Ranadel raised her head, showing Othniel the scars from metaphysical teeth on her neck.
“What about if someone else hurts her?” Othniel asked.
Ranadel pulled her lips back in a gruesome grin. “She didn’t account for that. I want to help with whatever you have planned, I just can’t touch her myself.”
“We can work around that,” Othniel said.
Over the next week, Othniel and Ranadel prepared. They decided to attack Brona on the full moon, which was Sunday night. Full moons always added a bit of extra energy to magical activities and they wanted the bonus charge for the spell to reverse their bindings. As a familiar, Ranadel had the ability to teleport, which made things go quickly.
Piece by piece, Othniel and Ranadel brought the items needed for the spell to Brona’s house and hid them in the hedge that ringed the property.
On one trip, they got surprised by Clara returning home early from the store because she forgot her wallet. Clara nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Ranadel, but when Othniel rubbed against Ranadel and purred, showing that the dog wasn’t a threat, Clara relaxed. Ranadel wagged her tail and did her best to look friendly.
“How did you get in?” Clara asked. “You must’ve come through the cat flap, but I can’t imagine how.”
Cautiously, Clara reached out and touched Ranadel on the shoulder. The dog gave her arm a lick and before long, Clara was scratching her belly and feeding her bites of Othniel’s salmon-flavored food. Clara thought out loud, wondering where Ranadel belonged and asking whether or not Ranadel was well looked after, given the scars and old injuries apparent on her body. “No wonder you two are friends,” Clara said. “You’ve both made it through rough times.”
By the end of the evening, Ranadel was practically in love with Clara. At one point, though, Ranadel’s ears pricked up. Brona wanted her. As soon as Clara’s back was turned, Ranadel evaporated, leaving Clara to ask Othniel how such a big dog got out so quickly and silently.
Clara looked worried, too. Worried about the strange dog’s welfare, and worried about Trevor. He kept leaving her voicemails and sending messages, pleading for her to come back to him. Clara wasn’t sleeping very well at night, and Othniel was distracted by his plans for Brona.
Brona’s house was surrounded by wardings, of course, but the ravens proved very helpful on that point. They meant Brona no harm, so they did not get repelled like Othniel did. A few carefully placed scratches to obscure the sigils, a couple spattered droppings to pollute the purity of her bowl of holy water tucked under the front porch, and three ravens working together to remove the horseshoe over the doors, and Brona would be vulnerable. The ravens rehearsed their jobs until each perfected their part. Then they waited.
The timing was important. As soon as Brona walked into the house, she would feel that something was awry. It would not take her long to repair the wards and the sabotage would put her on high alert. The plan required speed and coordination. Othniel and Ranadel’s best hope was to attack so quickly that it was over before she knew what had happened.
The night of the full moon finally came. Ranadel came up with a ploy to get Brona out of the house. The solution ended up being simple. She told Brona the truth, that the hex she left by the house on Westchester had been destroyed. Furious, Brona drove over to investigate.
While she was gone, Othniel used chalk to inscribe an intricate pattern on the floor of Brona’s living room. The task took longer than he liked. It was hard to hold the chalk with paws. He also poured a line of sage oil in a circle around the chalk lines. Then he picked up a match.
Brona returned from her mission and stomped inside. She slammed the door behind her, muttering a rant against whoever had meddled. Then she saw Othniel. She stopped dead in her tracks. “You,” she said.
“Long time, no see,” he replied. His words came out garbled because he had to speak around the matchstick he held in his teeth.
“Have you reconsidered my offer?” Brona asked.
“Go to hell,” Othniel said.
She ran at him and just before she reached him, he lit his match and ignited the circle. It erupted into a wall of blue fire. Brona stopped cold just before reaching the flames. She shrieked with rage, realizing the trap.
“How do you like being on the other side?” Othniel said.
“Ranadel!” Brona screamed.
The dog trotted into the room. Brona pointed at Othniel. “I command you to destroy him. Rip him apart.”
“Screw you,” Ranadel replied.
Brona’s hand clenched and she moved it in a jerking motion. If it wasn’t for the necklace of lavender on the dog’s neck and a barrier spell Othniel had put in place, the motion would have yanked Ranadel around like a rag doll. Othniel smiled. He walked toward a pile of items he had placed on the floor. First came the red candle. He placed it upright on the floor and lit it with a match. He took out two bundles of identical herbs. One he burned over the candle. When it had turned to ash, he took the other to the wall of fire surrounding Brona and placed the herbs in the flames. As they burned, Brona sank to the floor, pulled down by magic that immobilized her. Next, Othniel picked up the knife.
He walked through the fire to Brona, holding the blade in his mouth. He put the tip of the blade against the floor just above her head. She strained to see what he was doing, her eyes wide with fear. He pulled the knife in a circle around her whole body, cutting her tie to Ranadel and releasing the dog from her binding as a familiar. Ranadel danced. “Oh, that feels so good,” she said.
Brona groaned.
The next bit was more complex. He had to undo the spell that diminished his and Ranadel’s power and confined them in their current shapes. He had just started the incantation when a raven darted in through an open window.
Othniel turned in annoyance. “What?!”
“It’s Trevor,” the raven said. “He’s at the condo. He has a baseball bat and he’s angry.”
Ice ran down Othniel’s spine as he realized he’d never put up the warding he’d planned to. Clara was unprotected and Trevor had chosen this precise moment to get dangerous.
“Will she be okay?” Ranadel asked.
Othniel hesitated. It would only take a few minutes to finish the spell. He felt some of his power coming back and once it was finished, he would be at his full strength...
Another raven flew in. “He broke a window,” the raven said. “He’s inside.”
Screw it. Othniel ran to Ranadel and jumped on her back. “Go! Now!”
The air warped around them and in the blink of an eye they went from Brona’s living room to Clara’s. Trevor loomed over Clara, yelling and gesturing with the baseball bat. She sat on the floor, crying and covering her head. Othniel could almost taste her terror in the air. There was blood on her head. He had already struck her at least once. Othniel’s rage engulfed him.
Ranadel and Othniel both lunged at Trevor. Ranadel’s powerful body knocked him down and Othniel’s razor-sharp claws shredded clothing and skin. Trevor’s yells turned to screams.
It only took a few moments for Clara to react. Despite it all, she came to Trevor’s defense. She grabbed Othniel and pulled him away. She wrestled Ranadel off, not paying attention to the dog’s massive jaws that could easily take chunks out of her. Surprised, Ranadel backed off. Trevor curled into a fetal position on the floor, beaten and bloody.
“What did you do, you bitch? You sicced a dog on me?!” Trevor’s voice was a combination of hysterical and frightened.
Clara’s face went hard. She gave Trevor a swift kick in the ribs. He howled in pain. She picked up her phone and dialed 911. “Hello,” she said, “I’ve just been attacked by my ex-boyfriend. He broke in and attacked me.” She gave the dispatcher her address and within minutes a squad car arrived with flashing lights and sirens wailing.
The police found Trevor on the floor, still blubbering. Clara’s face was already puffing up from where he struck her and her window was obviously broken. The police asked Clara if she wanted to press charges. When she gave an emphatic “absolutely,” they handcuffed Trevor and arrested him. Trevor babbled about a vicious dog, but the officers found no sign of Ranadel. When asked about the dog, Clara simply replied, “I don’t have a dog. It’s just me and my cat.” She pointed to Othniel. The officers looked at him, then at the scratches on Trevor’s face.
“You should give your cat some treats,” one of the officers said. “He did good work tonight.”
“Yes,” Clara said, stroking Othniel’s back. “He’s a very good cat.”
“Do you have someone you can call? Someone who can stay with you tonight?”
“No, it’s just the two of us.” Clara saw the look of concern in the officer’s eyes. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay here.”
Once the police left, Clara went to work boarding up the broken window. Othniel stayed close, watching for any sign that her injury was worse than it looked or that she was more shaken up than she looked. She worked quietly, but with focus and she closed up the window tight enough to withstand a hurricane. By the time she finished, it was past midnight.
Clara got ready for bed. She broke down in the shower and sat in the stream of hot water for almost half an hour, sobbing. Othniel sat on the counter, watching her. When she got out of the bathroom, she climbed into bed and fell asleep quickly, exhausted from the emotions and the adrenaline.
Ranadel popped into the space next to where Othniel sat on the rug in the bedroom. “How is she?” Ranadel asked.
“Doing well, all considered.”
“That’s good.”
The two of them sat in the dark room, watching Clara’s chest rise and fall as she slept. After a time, Othniel spoke, “Brona’s gone, isn’t she?”
“The restraining spell wore off while we were dealing with Trevor,” Ranadel said. “By the time I got back there, she was gone.”
Othniel considered. “I found her once,” he said.
“We’ll find her again,” Ranadel replied. She used one of her back feet to scratch at her ear. “I’m glad Clara’s okay.”
“You should stay,” Othniel said. “Clara likes you.”
Ranadel looked down at her paws. “Do you really think so? I mean, I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Othniel walked over to Clara’s bed. He hopped up and settled into his usual spot near her feet. He motioned Ranadel over.
Clara woke when the big dog landed in the bed. The moonlight through the window illuminated the dark animal and Clara smiled. “My hero,” she said. She patted the part of the bed in front of her and when Ranadel settled in, Clara reached an arm around her and pulled her close.
Together, the three of them slept.