The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [56]
To his right he heard a young woman's gasp, a hint of a scream cut short ― not a scream of pain. He scowled. There must be more to Trimghoul's success with women than met the casual eye.
He moved towards the sound of panting, and looked up. There, the window above him. Trimghoul's bedroom? He supposed so. It sounded like Foxtongue's voice. To his considerable relief, things fell silent then. There was a slight pop, a faint flash of ruby light, and he knew that Foxtongue's leg was back, in its proper form, seamlessly joined to her silken thigh.
Still he waited. Maybe half an hour later he heard someone stir in the room ― and a voice, Trimghoul's, Foxtongue's reply. Ashura bit his lip till he drew blood. It was going wrong, he could sense it.
No, Foxtongue had managed, somehow, not to arouse suspicion. Again the sounds of Foxtongue at climax. Again blood rushed to Ashura's face at the thought of it.
Silence. Long silence.
She's gone to sleep, he said to himself, she's gone to sleep and she's forgotten what she's there for!
No. Again, footsteps, the rustling of covers.
Nothing.
Where was she?
A faint glow to the room. A sharp intake of breath.
The glow became more fierce. Then the screaming started.
Foxtongue's.
Then Trimghoul's.
The window shattered. Blood and fragments showered down on the cringing Ashura.
He straightened up. In a pool of glass a flayed mound of flesh, bone and intestine gibbered and shook. A hand rose, glowing, shedding nerve and artery in a shower of sparks and fluid. It fell to the ground. Trimghoul, or what was left of him, lay still.
Foxtongue leaned out the window. Her cheeks were wet. She was shivering. There was a look of fear in her eyes.
"God, Ashura, what did you do to him?"
Ashura was shaking, too. "Come down and I'll explain."
"I don't think I trust you, Ashura. You've learned black arts for sure."
And all of a sudden Ashura was laughing. "Oh, yes, black arts. Of course." He began to giggle hysterically.
Mystified, Foxtongue climbed down from the window and stood -on two legs ― beside him. She frowned. "Let me in on the joke, Ashura, or lose me forever. I won't part my thighs for necromancers. Not again. Ever. That includes you, it seems."
Ashura tried, with no great success, to sober up. "Have you ever wondered at Trimghoul's costume? Or why his windows were always sealed? I mean, when Trimghoul swats away a fly with his mind, he takes off a patch of skin as well! That's the weakness! It was staring us in the face all along! He had power, for sure, but deep down it was all out of control."
She took him by the lapels, pushed him against the wall, and breathed menacingly into his face. "What was in the pot, Ashura?"
Ashura grinned. "Itching powder," he replied. "What better start to Jape Day?"
He slipped his arm round her waist. "Now, why don't we go back to Mother Runnell's and I'll explain everything."
The Neglected Garden
KATHE KOJA
"I DON’T WANT TO GO," she said. "I'm not going."
Patient and calm, the way he wanted to be, he explained again; they had discussed it, she was moving out. He had already packed her things for her, five big cardboard boxes, labeled, he had done the best he could. Clothes on hangers and her big Klee print wrapped and tied carefully across with string, everything neatly stacked in the car, here, he said, here's the keys.
"I don't want the car," she said. Tears ran down her face but she made no crying sounds, her breathing did not change, in fact her expression did not change. She stood there staring at him with rolling tears and her hands empty, palms upwards, at her sides. He kissed her, a little impatiently, on her mouth.
"You have to go," he said. "Please, Anne, we've gone all through this. Let's not make it any harder than it already is," although in fact it wasn't all that hard, not for him anyway. "Please," and he leaned forward but did not kiss her again; her lips were unpleasantly wet.
She stared