It was a happy coincidence that both werebears and fairymoths are natural cave-dwellers. Had Hunter been born a werewhale, or Saturnii a fairy penguin, their relationship would have been even more complicated than it already was. Still, Saturnii liked to think they would have made it work, because love is love and that’s what people in love did, right? They made it work.
“This isn’t working.” She picked up a small copper ring and examined it as Hunter laid out the rest of his meagre earnings on the cave floor. A pound of sugar. Three balls of sheepig wool. A single lonely silver coin. “Why isn’t anyone buying?”
“They’re all on edge since the witch massacre. More than usual, that is.” He pulled a leg of salted pork from his sack and hung it in the chiller nook. The block of ever-ice that kept the pantry cool was getting worryingly small. “Old Mauve said the Church is on the hunt for sympathisers and collaborators. No one wants to be seen talking to me, and nearly everything we sell is considered contraband.” He sat down opposite her with a heavy sigh. “We need to think about changing the business model.”
A small cough at the cave mouth made them both jump. In an instant they were up and facing the intruder, claws and magic ready to shred and blast. The faint fluorescence of the floating fairylights revealed a short Shrooman, a v-wolf skin draped across his shoulders and a crown of bloodthorns upon his headcap.
“I may be able to help you there.” A mouldy stench filled the cave as the figure stepped forward, trailing long threads of dark, wriggling hyphae behind him. The ropey strands spilled from his back and seemed to twist and curl of their own accord, reaching out to examine everything nearby with their slippery touch. One tendril reached into a wicker basket and pulled out a lacey, fairy-sized bra and held it up to the stranger’s face.
“Hey! Get your tentacles off my stuff!”
“How lovely.” It sniffed the garment then tossed it aside. Hunter gave a deep-throated growl and took a step forward while Saturnii traced the runes of a killing spell in the air. “Not so hasty now.” Another tendril rose into the air, wrapped tightly around the head of a feathered ball of fury. It kicked and scratched uselessly against its bonds with a pair of little chicken legs. ”You wouldn’t want me to slip and let this little critter go. I’ve heard they’re so cute that their looks can kill!”
Saturnii looked closer, and her heart froze as she noted the bubblegum pink hue of the creature’s feathers. “Hunt, stop! It’s a chockatrice!”
Ask any child under the age of ten what they wanted more than anything else in the world, and after you’d separated out the trauma cases who wished their parents dead, or the dangerously selfless who asked for world peace, you were left with a billion little souls begging for a chockatrice. Highly illegal in almost every jurisdiction, it resembled a rooster in all respects besides its vibrant pink feathers and chocolate brown eyes. It was those eyes that gave it such a deadly and delicious reputation.
“You can both just back up a bit there, alright? Put those claws away big guy.”
The cave shook as thunder rumbled in Hunter’s chest and throat. “You think I’m scared of a gods-damned chicken?” Coarse hair sprouted from his neck and forearms as his frame thickened.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
“You think I won’t do it?” The Shrooman held the chockatrice higher. “I’ll do it! I swear to Sod I’ll do it!”
“Stand down, Hunt, please! I don’t think he’s bluffing!” Saturnii fumbled for one of her calming powders but it was too late. Hunter leapt, his body warping as he sailed through the air, clothes tearing, bones cracking and reforming as the beast emerged in full. The Shrooman thrust the chockatrice into the bear’s face even as the outstretched talons pierced his body and the gaping maw descended. Hunter’s roar cut off abruptly and a soft pop echoed through the cave.
“Hunt! No!” The giant red gummi bear teetered for a moment, jelly claws still embedded in the strange Shrooman, then it toppled to the side and bounced once, twice, three times before it settled against a wall, rippling and wobbling like a belly dancer riding a hippopotamus in the middle of an earthquake.
“Argh! He stabbed me! What in Sod’s name is wrong with you people?” The Shrooman was pressing his hands against the wounds in his shoulders while his hyphae waved about erratically, including the tendril still holding the chockatrice. Saturnii stayed very still, doing everything she could to supress the murderous rage she felt building. She kept her head turned away in case the bird’s eyes were still exposed. “You, moth girl! Bring me some dirt! Do what I say or you’ll be next!”
Do it for Hunt. If anything happens to me now he’s lost forever. “Yes, of course.” Her voice was iron nails pushed through gritted, chalkboard teeth. She flitted over to one of her potted plants.
“Slowly, now. If you try anything stupid I’ll turn you into fairy floss!”
She dragged the pot across the uneven floor while fighting down hot tears of fear and anger. How dare this blasted fungus come into her home, touch her things, turn her husband into candy…
“Right, stop there and back away.”
She did as he said, still keeping her gaze averted. From the corner of her eye she could see the Shrooman scooping handfuls of dirt from the pot and pushing the soil into his wounds. “Ahh, yeh that’s the stuff. Not bad for a bug.”
“What do you want?”
“Hey now, there’s no need to hurry. We’ll get to that.” A wandering tendril touched Saturnii on the leg. She slapped it away. “Ho ho ho, just as feisty as I remember.”
“Remember? What’s to remember? We’ve never met, you slimy piece of mould. And unless you want me burn this whole funking place down with both of us inside, you’d better not touch me again.”
The tendrils withdrew a little but still lingered close by, twitching and spasming as he spoke. “Oh, we both know you won’t do that. Not while there’s a chance to save your precious husband.” He glanced meaningfully at the gelatin form of Hunter who was still quivering slightly, a look of startled rage fixed upon his gelatinous face. “Do what I say and maybe you can get him back. Maybe. Anyway, we have met. You’re very dear to me, in fact. I think of you almost like a mother…”
She gasped, forgetting the chockatrice and spinning around to look at the Shrooman. “No! Not possible! You look nothing like Agrathea’s friend, and she wouldn’t have gone out on a limb to save an asshole like you. What’s your game? Who are you and what in the hells do you want?”
The stranger smirked, then attempted what Saturnii guessed was supposed to be a dramatic flourish of his cloak and an elegant bow. What he actually managed to do was get tangled up in his wolfskin while stumbling forward. He caught himself just in time to avoid falling flat on his face, then stood as tall as he could manage and struck an unimpressive pose. “I…am…MYCAIL!” He paused, maybe expecting an applause, or at least a fearful cower. Saturnii just stared blankly at him.
“And what the funk do you want, Mycail?”
He moved closer, leaning down so they were eye to eye. He didn’t have to lean far. This close, the smell was a thousand times worse. A forgotten potato turned to liquid in a bowl of sour milk. She gagged. “I hope you have a lot of these pots, because we’re going to grow an army. You, my lovely little bug, will be the mother of the apocalypse.”