“Mrs. Lancaster, it’s a foolish —” was all Morrigan got out before being interrupted.

“Oh, you think I’m a fool!? Why, I’ve never! Pfft,” Carol Lancaster said with haughty disgust. Her styled hair was now a frizzy dark brown mess, dampened by sweat and the humidity of the bog. Carol brushed away a lock of hair from her face. In doing so, the gesture revealed a glowering expression that Morrigan felt was completely unjustified.

Carol continued before Morrigan could get a word in. “That’s fine. I see how it is Miss LaFey. You think I’m just a rich fool because I believe in magic. You’re no better than anyone else!”

Carol, turned her nose up at Morrigan with a “hmph.” She proceeded to walk past her on unsteady feet, not interested in Morrigan’s response.

It was not the first time Carol had ignored Morrigan’s input. 

This inconsiderate behavior had become a constant annoyance since Morrigan drove Carol Lancaster from her private plane, past the nearest small town, out to this desolate landscape. And it had only gotten worst once they left Morrigan’s Honda parked further down the path; a safety precaution to keep it from getting stuck.

And in the same way that this wasn’t the first time the woman had ignored Morrigan, it wasn’t the first time that she nearly fell. There were at least six times Morrigan rushed to catch the much taller woman, and almost face planted onto the rough ground herself.

Carol took another misstep on the uneven terrain and almost tumbled over. Morrigan shot her hands out to catch the woman. Carol splayed her hands out, regaining her balance. With an indignant swirl of her hands, she batted Morrigan’s hands away with disdain.

The action sent a surge of anger through Morrigan’s body. Swirls of heat, more than what any human body could produce, roiled in her palms, waiting to be called on — waiting for a simple incantation.

“That is not what I said!” Morrigan snapped, stomping the ground. Size six boots kicked up dirt and dislodged pewter grey stones into a miniature vertical volley. Annoyance creased her brow, and frustration drilled the heels of her boots into the ground, marking an imaginary line that she would not allow Carol to cross.

A line Morrigan would defend with words and hard logic —  or blood and fire if she needed to.

Morrigan stood still, arms crossed, and feet planted like an immovable boulder in the middle of the gravel path.

Carol spider-walked on her heels, carefully lifting and then placing each leg in an effort to keep her stilettos from getting stuck … again. She didn’t notice, or care, that Morrigan had stopped moving or even appeared to respond to Morrigan’s words. Instead, Carol’s head remained tilted to the ground, paying attention to the walkway.

The path was a nearly abandoned drive with only a splattering of visible gravel that was choked out by weeds and dirtied by old tree limbs, mud, and who knows what. The path, large enough to fit a car, maybe, divided clusters of gnarled trees on either side of the two women. The trees themselves serving as a barricade between them, the wetlands of the bog, and the hordes of mosquitos that infest it.

The smell left much to be imagined. Even Carol’s exuberant perfume couldn’t hide the rancid smells that would occasionally ride the breeze; a stink that smelled like sour-milk and rotten eggs were actively making a love child in Morrigan’s nostrils. 

That stench was only matched by the smell of something, or “somethings,” that had died not too far away. Adding those smells, with the odd rustling in the trees made a good reason for Morrigan and her client to be on their way, unless things got worse.

Morrigan’s logical mind knew this. She knew, too, that their time was running out. From what little intel Morrigan gathered before accepting this escort mission, she knew that “visitors” who arrived after a certain time didn’t fare too well. Morrigan and her client, Mrs. Carol Lancaster — wife to a billionaire — had a deadline to reach their destination: the Bog Hag’s hut.

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It was common knowledge amongst the magical society that you didn’t want to piss off a bog hag; every witch knew that for certain. Even common people interested in myth and lore knew that bog hags weren’t to played with. That also included Carol.

What Carol didn’t know was that she shouldn’t piss off a witch, period. And right now, she was pissing Morrigan off. Or, as Morrigan’s meathead friend, Ripley calls her, La Fey, The Cold Fire Witch, Second of the Sons of Lilith.

But Carol didn’t seem to get it. It seemed to Morrigan that this woman, who came into her shop, with the appearance of a church mouse, asking for help was more of a snobbish Persian cat. Morrigan didn’t like to be played, nor did she like for people to make up things.

“I did not say that! You will not put words in my mouth.” Morrigan said. She stared over her rectangular-rimmed glasses at Carol. Carol stood at an easy 5’9” without heels. But Carol did have heels —  four inches high at least. The height forced Morrigan to stare up at the woman who towered over her 5’3” stature.

Carol wore a tight green, shimmering dress, with straps that fell to the shoulders. It was as beautiful as it was inappropriate for the situation they were in. And it was a sign of willful negligence to Morrigan’s advice on what to wear — hiking boots, comfortable clothes you can get dirtied, and with as much coverage as you can for bugs.

As if in further insult, Morrigan realized she was staring at the woman’s exposed back. The only thing that somewhat covered it was Carol’s dark brown hair, which was just below shoulder width.

The woman was dressed for a formal night out on the town, not a trek through bog territory. A trek which might end up with a dangerous confrontation with a bog hag, or whatever else lurked out here…

But Carol didn’t seem to care, and still didn’t respond to Morrigan. The woman just kept walking, in that weird tip-toe posture reminiscent of a drunk college girl trying to walk in heels across a cracked sidewalk.

“Are you even listening to me? Or are you just going to ignore me?”

Morrigan’s usual neutral tone, honed to by years of scientific research and presentation, had turned cutting and defiant.

Morrigan didn’t like being accused of things that she hadn’t done — especially when all she was trying to do was help. And she wasn’t going to let Mrs. Carol Lancaster get away with it either, no matter how much she had paid for this needless venture.

Carol snapped her gaze back and over her shoulder to Morrigan. It was a hard stare that gave Morrigan time to look at a woman whose’s beauty didn’t seem to match her behavior.

Carol had olive green eyes, a shade dark than her dress, a mole by her red lips, and well manicured eyebrows. She for all intents, was a classic conventional beauty. Given who her husband was — a wealthy man with his pick of women — , and her looks, Carol probably had been a model.

But unlike the usual choice of males with abundant wealth, Carol wasn’t young. You’d be hard pressed to say that she was at all beyond middle age. But there were tells - as age always has its tells. The smile lines that makeup can’t quite hide. The subtle wrinkles and thinner skin around the neck. The thinning of fingers, common with all except those with meaty hands built from years of hard manual labor.

It was doubtful that her hands had picked up more than dresses, wine glasses, and jewelry. Regardless, she was aging. Carol wasn’t getting older and there wasn’t much to do about it.

But isn’t that why they we are there? To help Carol keep her beauty so that she might not get the boot from her husband when he found some new young thing? Though, from Carol’s perspective, it was the more likely situation that some new “young thing” with ambitions for an easy life found her husband. A situation, with this new world of “thirst traps” and social media that might be even easier to happen.

The idea of losing something some precious as a loving relationship to something so simple  was sad and unfortunate. The recollection of why they were here, washed over Morrigan like a bucket of water on a campfire - not enough to put out the fire of her anger, but enough to back it down to a level of frustration.

“Yes, you did. You think I’m crazy don’t you!? Just because I believe in magic, doesn’t mean I’m crazy!” Carol Lancaster responded in a flash of words that would not be argued with.

“No Mrs. Lancaster, that’s not what I said. What I said was —” Morrigan said, before being interrupted again.

“Plus, aren’t you a witch? Don’t you Do magic?” Mrs. Lancaster responded, arching a drawn-on eyebrow and peering down through crystal green colored eyes at Morrigan.

“Yes I —” Morrigan tried to get a word in but was interrupted immediately by the fast talking, flustered, and overly perspiring Mrs. Lancaster.

“That’s what my Lifestyle Manager said. ‘La Fey, from the Sons of Lilith, she’ll get you there, no problem.’”

“Mrs. Lancaster, we —”

“You think I’m a fool don’t you …. I know magic is real. Even if you don’t! Maybe I should just ask for my money back. And maybe I’ll just demote my Lifestyle Manager back to being a personal assistant.”

“Mrs. Lancaster, listen —”

“No one believes me!” Carol shouted, awkwardly turning her body to face Morrigan, looking like a giraffe in quicksand. Her chest was heaving, her brows knit, and her voice strong, unbending.

“Enough! Come to me, essence of passion, essence of flame, light in my hands a power the same: flame craft: swirling flickers,” Morrigan chanted, turning her palms upwards to the sky, her hands at shoulder level in front of her.