Sort of Dead

68 - Her Wickedness's Ballroom

When I come to be, my hands are tied behind my back and I am somehow on my knees. Beside me is Rasthrum, in precisely the same pose. His eyes meet mine, and there is a clear inflection of fear in both of ours. We're inside a castle or a fort or something, I guess. It's got high ceilings, tapering walls, sturdy columns etched with engravings of skulls and whatnot. The classic medieval ballroom.

Before us stands a bowing Mr. Cellomann, and before him sits the Grahi Witch, on a throne made of what I perceive to be black-dyed glass. She continues to make her ridiculous red garments with brown straps look groovy. You know, because of how flawless she looks and all.

'I didn't get the spirit,' Mr. Cellomann is saying, in a tone far less wackier than it should be. 'I couldn't get her to eat the darn thing back at my shop. So I had no control over her.'

The Grahi Witch smiles a bewitching smile (pun intended; that's the best I can do with my woozy head). 'No matter,' she says in her high, sharp voice. It's the kind of voice that penetrates your ears and makes them bleed. Not a bad voice; just a shearing one. 'We have all we need.'

She looks directly at me while saying this last part, and her eyes gleam like a wee star. Mr. Cellomann draws a visibly relieved breath.

'You!' I rasp. But I can manage no more. There's a traffic of dust in my pipe.

Mr. Cellomann turns to me, smiles a smile that's equal parts wacky and sinister. 'You didn't think a huckleberry bookshelf was actually a thing, did you?' He bends, leans over right over my face, whispers: 'And it wasn't fat-free either.'

I rear my head and bring it forward hard, hitting the wackster's mouth much the same way I hit Gaba back when he trapped me and Aar in the remote alleyway. He falls backward, seems to gag for a second, then spits out a tooth and some blood.

The blood makes my stomach yearn, and the sight of Mr. Cellomann yowling in pain gives me pleasure.

The Grahi Witch doesn't seem upset in the least by my actions. In fact, she smirks the same evil smirk as she did in my vision/dream thing. 'Well, well,' she croons, 'looks like we have a fighter here.'

Then she stands up, and I'm astonished even in my worry about what happened to my friends regarding how lofty she is. She's nearly as tall as Mr. Cellomann, and thrice as commanding. She walks over to me, puts one long, manicured nail on my cheek, and whispers: 'Poor soul, I warned you, did I not? Now all your friends and your dear old Uncle will die slow, tormenting deaths. And you will have to live for ever, and ever, with the massive weight of their untimely deaths on your frail chest.'

I convulse, but my hands are bound. 'Where are they?'

She smirks that smirk that irks me (wow, the amount of irk), then moves over to Rasthrum beside me. He is facing the dark, cold stone floor, not willing to meet her piercing eye.

'Look at me, son,' says the Grahi Witch.

Rasthrum groans. Grunts. Grumbles. Characteristic of him.

'I said,' she says more commandingly this time. 'Look. At. Me.'

She flicks her hand in a smooth upward motion, and as if by an invisible thrust, Rasthrum's head flicks upwards as well. Meeting her gaze.

'You always were quite stubborn, weren't you?' The Grahi Witch says, as if talking to her child. (Wait, he is her child.) 'I have given you chances, time and again. No more. I shall get rid of you once and for all. You shall die a death people will remember, so that the foolish thought of facing me never occurs to anyone in this city for another peaceful thousand years.'

Rasthrum doesn't show any fear. He doesn't react at all. His shoulders are slumped; he's defeated, he's done fighting, he knows it's over.

The Grahi Witch seats herself elegantly on her dark-glass throne again and notions the bleeding-mouth Mr. Cellomann. 'Take the boy to the dungeons,' she says.

'Which one, your Wickedness?'

I stifle a snicker, despite the situation. Your Wickedness. I mean, come on.

You rule Lakoswa-boggle-gobble-whatchamallik and that's the best you can come up with?

Her Wickedness does not answer. She raises a neatly trimmed brow at the wackster, whose face lightens up with joy. 'Now we're talking,' he says, and grabs me by the arm, dragging me across the floor.

I don't really care. My mind is elsewhere.

I didn't get the spirit - isn't that what Mr. Cellomann said earlier?

Es. He was definitely referring to Es.

Es.

You're the only one that can save us now.

You didn't think I created the wacky chapter 54 earlier just to channel my inner weirdness, did you?

Also, get ready. Because, yes, it's on.