Prophecies, Libels & Dreams: Stories by Wilce Ysabeau

Author:Wilce, Ysabeau [Wilce, Ysabeau]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Short Stories (Single Author), Fiction, Fantasy, Historical, Collections & Anthologies, Short Stories
ISBN: 9781618730909
Publisher: Small Beer Press
Published: 2014-10-20T07:00:00+00:00

IX. Thy Baited Hook

Here is Hardhands, returning to the Waking World. His blood is mud within his veins, he can barely suck air through stifled lungs, and there’s a droning in his ears, no not droning, humming, Tiny Doom:

“Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her! Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her! Kick her bite her that’s the way I’ll spite her!”

The view aloft is raven-headed angels, with ebony black wings swooping loops of brocade across a golden ceiling. Then the view aloft is blocked by Tiny Doom’s face; she still has the sugar mustache, and her kohl has blurred, cocooning her blue eyes in smoky blackness. Her hat is gone.

“Don’t worry, Bwannie.” She pats his stiff face with a sticky hand. “Pig will save us.”

His brain heaves but the rest of him remains still. The frame of his body has never before been so confining. Diligent practice has made stepping his mind from his flesh an easy accomplishment, are there not times when a magician’s Will needs independence from his blood and bones? But never before has he been stuck, nor run up against sigils harder and more impenetrable than his own. Lying in the cage of his own flesh, he is feeling helpless and tiny, and it’s a sucky feeling, not at all suited to his stature of Pontifexa’s grandson, first-rate magician and—

“I will bite you,” says Doom.

“I doubt that,” is the gritty answer, a deep rumble: “My skin is thick as steel and your teeth will break.”

“Ha! I am a shark and I will bite you.”

“Not if I bite you first, little lovely, nip your sweet tiny fingers, crunch crunch each one, oh so delicious, what a snack. Come here, little morsel.”

The weight of Tiny Doom suddenly eases off his chest, but not without kicking and gripping, holding on to him in a vice-like grip, oww, her fingers dig like nails into his leg but to no avail. Tiny Doom is wrenched off of him, and in the process he’s wrenched sideways; now he’s got a nice view of the grassy floor, a broken teapot, and, just on the edge, someone’s feet. The feet are shod in garish two-tone boots: magenta upper and orange toe-cap. Tiny Doom screams like a rabbit, high and horrible.

“You’ll bruise her,” says a voice from above the feet. “And then the Pontifexa will be chuffed.”

“I shall not hurt her one jot if she’s a good girl, but she should shut her trap, a headache I am getting.”

Good for her, Tiny Doom does not shut her trap, she opens her trap wider and shoots the moon, with a piercing squeal that stabs into Hardhands’ unprotected ears like an awl, slicing all the way down to the center of his brain. With a smack, the shriek abruptly stops.

Two pretty little bare feet drift into Hardhands’ view. “Stop it, you two. She must be returned in perfect condition, an’ I get my deposit back. It’s only the boy that the Pontifexa wants rid of; the girl is still her heir.

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