Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 13 (4 page)

He was barely holding his own, when he heard Kelsey speak her first word since he had met the little girl.  “Help!”

Venil turned toward the source of the cry and saw that Jade had been disarmed and brought to her knees.  She was kneeling between two of the Artemise, as the third stood before her, an obsidian short sword in hand.  And then the weight of something solid crashed into the back of Venil’s head and darkness descended upon him like a night bereft of stars.

Therefore, he did not see the grisly scene that followed, nor hear the hate-filled conversation, though it would later be related to him.  “How can you side with the Relnak?” Syntara snarled at the initiate, the flat of her blade beneath Jade’s chin, forcing the woman’s head upward.  “You are a traitor to your own gender. Would that there was more time to punish you
appropriately, but alas, we are in a hurry. This will have to do.” She pushed the edge of the blade into Jade’s exposed neck and pulled the sword across and through the tender flesh, blood spraying forth in generous quantities.   The other women snatched up Kelsey.

Syntara cleaned the blade on the clothing of Jade’s corpse and returned it to its scabbard at her side.  Then she addressed the others.  “Quickly! Back to camp! We must ready the chosen for the ritual! And bring the male. He shall serve well among our chattel.”

The Great Exodus will continue in Issue 14.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Steve Coate is a speculative fiction writer who lives in sunny South Florida, where he struggles daily for dominion of the keyboard with his possessive tabby, Bigby. His fiction has also appeared in Bloodbond magazine, Ray Gun Revival, the Nightfall Publications anthology From Shadows & Nightmares, Stupefying Stories: SHOWCASE, and The Western Online. For updates on his fiction, follow Steve on Twitter @stevecoate. Readers can also drop him a line at [email protected]

They Never Remember

By CJ Jessop

The horn was a giveaway. Edie tried to draw Mabel’s attention away by pointing at the church spire poking through the mist.

“Look how far we walked. The village looks so tiny. Not bad for a couple of sixty-somethings.”

Her sister was not to be so easily distracted. “Never mind the village. Look.” She gestured into the field.

Edie followed the line of her sister’s arm and tried to keep her shoulders from drooping. “It’s probably fake. Some kind of joke. I bet it's just a regular horse with a plastic horn fastened on." She tugged Mabel's arm. "We should get on. I promised the vicar we'd help with the flowers for the Routledge wedding."

“We'll be back in plenty of time for that. Of course it’s real. Plastic doesn't shine like that. Sometimes, Edith Birkenshaw, I wonder about you.”

“But—”

“But nothing.” Mabel strode towards the fence. “That unicorn is real. I'd put my bingo money on it."

Edie opened her mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Least said, soonest mended, Mother always said.

Her sister rummaged around in her voluminous handbag, face scrunched. “I know I put it in here somewhere.”

Taking a deep breath of damp air, Edie gave the unicorn an apologetic look. He lifted his head from nibbling the grass and stared right at her. She shivered, fancying that those onyx eyes could see right inside her.

After several moments of grumbling, Mabel pulled her hand from her bag. “Tada!”

Edie’s shoulders drooped again. “You’re not going to—”

“No, you are. Here.” Mabel thrust out the camera. "Wait until I mount him." She let go, forcing Edie to take hold or risk dropping it in the mud.

“But, there are rules.” Edie cursed the tremor in her voice. Why did disagreeing with her sister always have to feel like stepping in front of a speeding train?

Mabel glowered from the fence. “What are you talking about?”

Heat spread across Edie’s cheeks and neck. “In all the stories ... unicorns ... well they won’t have anything to do with you unless....”

“Go on.”

“You have to be a virgin.”

“What?”

“A unicorn won’t let you ride him unless you’re a virgin.” Edie's voice was barely above a whisper.

“And who’s to say I’m not a virgin?”

“There was that chap from Macclesfield.”

Mabel’s lips pursed into an expression Edie secretly called the cat’s arse. “That was forty years ago. And how would you know?”

“Mother told me.”

“Oh did she now?" Mabel placed her handbag on the stile. "Well, I’ll have you know she caught us before anything untoward happened.”

Edie wished Mother had not caught them. Who knew what a bit of a romp might have done for her sister’s disposition.

“So, if you have to be a virgin, why don’t you ride him?” Mabel faced the unicorn. “Or did you let that man from Batley take your drawers off?”

“I ... of course not.” Edie made a rude gesture at her sister's back. There had not been a man from Batley. There had been one from Scunthorpe, though, and one from Barnsley. She still remembered their faces, and how much she had enjoyed their naughty games in the dark parlour, while Mother slept and Mabel was at bingo. 

“Are you listening to me?”

“What?” Edie's cheeks burned at being caught remembering.

“I’m going to see if he will let me get on. Get the camera ready.”

“Why do you need to take a picture?”

Mabel raised an eyebrow. “You really are as daft as you look, aren’t you? This beauty is going to make me rich. Think about it. A unicorn. How much do you think the newspapers would pay for an exclusive picture?”

Edie opened the case and took out the camera. The unicorn tilted his head and looked right at her. She gasped as visions invaded her mind when her finger pressed the on switch. First, the unicorn surrounded by photographers. Then, shivering in a dark stable guarded by armed men. Last, he looked up at her while men in butchers' aprons sawed off his horn.

She blinked hard, trying to banish the images. 

It’s no use. She stared into the abyss of his eyes. If I don’t take the picture, Mabel will. Another image entered her mind, and she smiled secretly. Of course. She switched off the camera and raised it to eye level. 

Using the stile for lift, Mabel grabbed hold of the unicorn’s mane and swung herself onto his back. With her straight back and haughty expression, she could have passed for royalty. 

Until he bucked her, head first onto the grass.             

“Oh dear.” Edie dithered for a moment, looking from the stile to the unicorn and back to the ungainly, motionless heap that was her sister.

“She’s quite all right.” A warm, deep voice made her jump. "The fall just knocked her out. She'll come round soon enough."

She gaped.

“Yes, it’s me.” The unicorn tossed his mane and stomped. "Put the camera away and climb on my back. I’ll take you for a ride through the mist.”

“I'm not a virgin.” Realisation brought a slow smile to her lips. “And neither, it seems, was my sister.” She switched on the camera and pointed it at Mabel, careful to keep the unicorn out of the shot. Her sister would be furious.

“Oh, she was a virgin.” The unicorn threw back his head. “But that old legend is a lie put about by a certain type of virgin who think they’re better than the rest of us.”

Edie stepped over her sister and looked back. “Will she be all right? She’s a bit of a misery, but she’s all I have.”

“I promise. By the time I drop you off she’ll be wide awake and wondering what happened.”

“Won’t she remember?”

“Oh no. They never remember.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CJ Jessop lives and writes in the north of England with her husband, where she plots world domination with her army of cat. Yes, just one. You have to start somewhere. It’s a very fierce cat.

The Glamour Man

By Michael A. Pignatella

Everything had changed since Clay last visited these woods.  Back then they didn't even have a name, just a thick tract of Blue Ridge forest, good for hunting and fishing.  Back then he had come here to take a somewhat illicit walk in the woods with Cassie Perkins, a bubbly, beautiful farm girl with big dreams and a giving heart.  Back then he had been seventeen, with his life ahead of him, and no time for regrets.

Things were different now.  Now these woods were part of the Jefferson National Forest, complete with convenient parking and marked trails and restrooms.  Now he was ninety-one, spry for an old sucker, but always tired, his eyesight cloudy and his bones achy.  And now, instead of Cassie, he came with his infant great-grandson, Clayton Earnest Dunning, the fourth.  Little Clay.  The boy was strapped to his chest in one of those new contraptions, a Bjork or Bjorn or some fool thing.  Even now, as Clay began his slow but determined hike into the woods, Little Clay slept like an angel, his blonde, wispy hair rustling in the gentle early summer breeze.

His great-grandson.  His beautiful, sick, dying-from-cancer great-grandson.

Six months, the doctors over in Lynchburg said.  Six months for Little Clay to live– more than his entire short life. 
Infant acute lymphoblastic leukemia.
  Caught too late to treat.  Fatal.

Maybe so, to doctors.  But not to Clayton Earnest Dunning, Jr.  Clay knew where to go.  Knew who could help.

If he could find him.

It had been almost seventy-five years since Clay had traveled these woods with Cassie.  How his heart had pounded at the thought of being alone with her, truly alone, surrounded only by pitch pine and the call of warblers and the occasional swarming gnats.  Cassie had made a man's heart thump with her smile and her laugh, and, well, her curves.  Miles and miles of curves.

They'd been sitting on the front stoop of her parents' farmhouse in New Castle, sipping iced tea, courting in the accepted way.  Clay was rambling on about the good hunting he'd found up in the forest–making small talk, was all–but Cassie turned, her deep-green eyes twinkling.

"Take me there," she said.

"Sure, one day.  Maybe we can picnic with your Ma and Dad and–"

"No.  Take me there alone.  Soon."  An electric pause, then, "Take me today."

"I couldn't.  Your parents–"

"No one has to know.  I'll tell them I'm visiting Sara Watkins, meet you down the end of the road.  Please take me.  Make me happy."

Clay hadn't said anything, but they both knew he couldn't resist, that he would be there.  That he wouldn't miss it for the world.  And so they'd headed out into the woods as the afternoon had begun to turn to dusk.  Headed for an adventure.

Three hours later, only Clay returned.

~

Hiking was not a pastime for old men.  At least, not this old man.

Clay followed the trails as long as possible, trying to remember where they'd gone, how they had found him.  The Glamour Man.  Nothing felt familiar–so much had changed over seventy-odd years.  But Clay had to find the way.  Had to retrace his ancient steps.  Because despite the risk, despite what happened with Cassie, Clay knew the man, or whatever he was, could save Little Clay.

Call it instinct.  Call it wishful thinking, even, but Clay was sure of it.  Instinct.  Perhaps that was what was needed here.  Perhaps if he followed his gut, he could find the man.  The Glamour Man.

Instinct had worked with Cassie.  They had entered the forest alone that day, and when she had slid her hand inside Clay's, he'd felt a surge of excitement and yes, temptation.  Back then, slipping away alone with a young woman was in-and-of-itself an adventure.  But the touch of Cassie's skin, the scent of her hair, the spark in her eyes promised more.

So much more . . .

That spark was missing from Little Clay's eyes, and his skin was pale, even ashen.  Little Clay was losing ground, no way around it.  If not for that obvious fact, Clay would never had taken him.  Heck, he'd kidnapped his own great-grandson.  But it would be worth it, if he could find the Glamour Man.

Clay stopped walking.  He was lost.  Or at least, he was no longer on the trail.  Instinct?  Or just stupidity?  He turned in a slow circle, sweat coating his usually-dry skin, his heart straining, thousands of pinprick aches and pains assaulting his body.  When had he gotten so dang old?

He chuckled, then coughed, another reminder.  He'd gotten old at least twenty years ago.  It had been all downhill since.

Downhill.  Off in the distance, maybe fifty yards away, the ground seemed to drop away.  A valley.   Perhaps a valley lined with red and white oak, with sassafras and huckleberry.

The Glamour Man's valley.

He and Cassie had found the valley, all those years ago.  Pausing at the edge of the drop off, his lovely companion couldn't control her enthusiasm, her joy even.

"Oh, Clay, look how beautiful," she had said.

For perhaps the only time in his life, Clay said exactly the right thing.

"Not as beautiful as you."

She was on him before he could breathe, kissing him, her mouth tasting of mint.  Clay closed his eyes, sure he was dreaming, that when he opened them she would be gone. 

But she wasn't.  She was staring at him, her lips still pressed against his, even as she smiled.

"I do believe you're smitten with me," she said, putting on her best Southern belle accent, and Clay lost the war.  His heart was hers.

"Let's go down there," she said, nodding toward the valley, and before Clay could respond she was off, running down the steep hillside into the verdant dell. 

Clay had had no choice but to follow.

~

The valley–unlike the parking lot and the new signs and the hiking path–had not changed, even over seventy years later.  It was still lush with greenery, and as Clay poked his way down the hillside, careful not to jostle Little Clay, the smells and sounds came flooding back, the same as before.

"Chase me," Cassie had said, running through the high grass, letting her hair loose so that it blew in the breeze.  And he had, fueled by excitement and happiness.  And by desire.  He wanted to catch her, but he was also afraid.  What would he do when he did?

He never found out, because even as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, her heart beating so he could feel it against his own thumping chest, her feet kicking, a man emerged from the woods in front of them.

Clay blinked, unsure the man was real, even as his pounding heart shifted from excitement to fear.  Who was this man?  What would he say, stumbling across the two of them, alone in the woods?  Would he tell Cassie's parents?

The man approached, and Clay's mundane worries slipped away, replaced by confusion.  The man was dressed in what could only be described as a lurid jester's costume, a kaleidoscope of colors and patterns that seemed, although impossible, to be shifting and changing even as he approached.  He was tall and thin, though muscular, and he was handsome in a roguish way, like Clark Gable.  Except, like the bizarre outfit, his features also appeared to shift
–a bit more subtly–but weren't his eyes blue before?  And wasn't his hair blonde?  Except now it was jet-black.

Something was very off.

Cassie, however, didn't seem disturbed.  She released Clay's hand and approached the man. 

"Hello," she said, and her voice was different.  As if something deep and hidden had been unlocked from her soul.

"Hello."  The man smiled at Cassie, but looked over her head at Clay.  "Fine day, don't you think?"

His face had changed again, now soft and round, like a baby's.  The colors in his suit swirled and turned, and Clay averted his eyes, afraid he'd be swept into them, lost in a whirlpool.

"Yes." 

Unlike Cassie, Clay's voice was quiet.  Weak.  The man held out his hand, and Cassie clasped it high in the air.  Like they were beginning to dance.

And then they did.  Music filled Clay's ears, a phantom orchestra hidden in the woods, except no one was there but Clay and Cassie and the strange man.  The two danced as if in an old-time ball at a mansion long crumbled, weaving in an intricate pattern of steps and maneuvers that Clay could hardly follow.  Yet his own feet itched to betray him, to join this dance.  If he stared at the man's strange suit long enough, he would.

So he didn't.  Instead, he concentrated on Cassie's face.  Even here, the man's glamour had taken hold.  Cassie, simple Cassie, was no longer quite there.  Instead, like the man–the Glamour Man –Cassie's face seemed to shift, sometimes older, sometimes dark haired, sometimes blue-eyed.  Sometimes unrecognizable.  Something stirred deep in Clay's soul.  He would lose her, if he let this continue.

But he didn't know how to stop it.

As if Clay had spoken the words out loud, the Glamour Man stopped dancing, letting Cassie waltz off by herself, promenading through the valley.

"Do you dance?" he asked, a small smile tickling his face.  His teeth were small and precise and too white.

"No."  Yes, Clay thought, but refused to voice it.

"I can show you," the Glamour Man said.  "We all can dance."

Clay resisted with all his might, his feet wanting to shuffle, wanting to move.  He could have Cassie, have everything the Glamour Man offered, unspoken.  But for a price.

"What will it cost me to dance?" Clay asked.  The words were like cold water, dousing the fervor in his own body.

"Ah, well.  Everything has its price.  Magic demands power, and dancing requires energy.  The price is as it has always been–your energy for the dance.  For the magic."

Cassie floated past, as if to emphasize the terms of the bargain.  Clay didn't really understand, except at a basic level.  But it was enough.

"No deal."  It hurt to say it, but he steeled himself. 

"As you wish," the Glamour Man said, and he held out his hand.  Cassie skipped past, taking it into her own, and they resumed their dance.  Clay watched as they edged toward the encroaching forest, and then, as if a conductor had signaled the end of the song, the music stopped, and they were gone.  Like they never existed at all.

Clay had lingered until dark, but they didn't return.  Cassie was never seen again.

~

"Hello!"

Clay waited, calling out to the Glamour Man in his aged voice, demanding he return.  Little Clay sucked on a pacifier–not the contented, peaceful suckling of a healthy child, but the tired, desperate tug of the sick.  Of the dying.  Ever since the diagnosis, Clay couldn't help but think that way, couldn't help but see death on the horizon.  He would change that, one way or the other, tonight.

Except, nothing was happening.  Clay stood, listening for the orchestra, but all was silent, other than a few song birds in the trees.  Ninety-one years old, and still a fool.  He wondered what would have happened, had he danced that day, seventy-five years ago.  It would have spared Little Clay from his doomed existence . . .

The Glamour Man appeared, not so much walking from the trees, but rather popping into existence from nothing.  He wore the same suit, the same swirl of color, and his features continued their metamorphosis from swarthy to innocent to roguish.  Clay looked down, disoriented.

"You've returned."  The Glamour Man's voice was deep, and Clay's very bones reverberated.

"Yes.  For trade."

"Trade?  I don't bargain."

"You owe me.  For what you took.  For stealing Cassie."

Clay looked up, and the Glamour Man was smiling his small, frightening smile.

"She was not yours to give."

"No, but it cut me up just the same."  Clay felt tired, small.  He was too old, too used up for this.  Too late.

"Perhaps it did.  Perhaps it did."  The Glamour Man paused, and Clay heard the soft tinkle of music on the breeze.  "Do you still refuse to dance?"

"Dance?  I'm too old to dance."

"Age is irrelevant.  Energy is important.  Deals require magic, magic requires energy.  Do you want to make a deal,  Clayton Earnest Dunning?"

The music grew louder now, an infernal waltz that crept into Clay's soul.  His feet shifted of their own accord.

"Yes," he said, staring into the Glamour Man's eyes, blue-then-green-then-violet.  "I want to deal."

~

It was past dusk when Clay shuffled out onto the porch of his old Cape.  Fireflies zipped by, and the scent of mountain laurel was in the air.  For seventy-five years, Clay had wondered what happened to Cassie that night, so long ago.  It had been a tough situation for awhile–Cassie's disappearance was the talk of the town, and Clay expected to take the blame.  But Cassie, it turned out, had many suitors, and no one knew she had snuck away with Clay, and so he had survived to live his life, a happy, if unimportant existence.

Tonight had also been tough–his grandson Tom and Tom's wife Hannah were furious, returning home to find Clay and Little Clay missing, thinking the worst.  When Clay returned they pounced, snatching the child away and berating Clay for his lack of common sense.

But only one thing really mattered.