Fiction from the world of Myrmidon's Witchcraft

Rich settled into the black leather chair and stared back at the nervous-looking men across the table. After watching them squirm for a few minutes, he turned and gazed out at the magnificent view. New York in the springtime was very pretty, and the Carter Oil building gave a good look at the Manhattan skyline.

In front of him lay an unopened file with the word DEVEREUX stamped in red letters across the front. His fingers fiddled over it lazily, tapping the smooth paper as he returned his attention to the men at the table. Not one of them was under forty, not one of them had dark skin. Most of them had bulging bellies, some of them were balding. They all wore expensive suits and silk ties and Swiss watches. They all drove here in Mercedes or BMWs and had summer homes in Key West or Barbados. They were used to living the high life that Carter Oil and Subsidiaries had brought them.

The man directly opposite him, a rotund gent by the name of Henderson, cleared his throat. Rich let his wandering gaze settle on him, narrowing his eyes as he leaned forward. He smiled broadly, showing a row of tightly packed teeth.

"You understand, Mr. Freeman," Henderson began "That we have exhausted every possible option in this matter before coming to you,"

"Of course." The shark-like smile remained frozen.

"If we felt we had any recourse, we wouldn't have embarked upon this endeavor."

"Of course." They all said that. Every time one of them came to him, they gave the same dog and pony show. Padded their salaries, fired their employees, plundered all the resources they could get their greasy little hands on, but balked when it came to a little industrial espionage. Steal secrets of other corporations? Golly, that would be illegal. We could go to jail for that. Better find somebody to do it for us. Somebody like Mr. Richard Freeman, at their service. His smile vanished and he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket.

"Um, there's no smoking in here, Mr. Freeman," Henderson stammered.

Rich ignored the request and lit a match.

"So tell me," he said, blowing smoke across the table. "What's Tabby Devereux done to put your butts in such tight slings?"

"She commenced hostile takeover proceedings approximately two weeks ago. She offered the shareholders seventy dollars a unit, which is far more than anyone else is either willing or able to spend. She's got over forty percent of the stock already, and it shouldn't take her too long to get the rest. There's nothing we can do about it. The combined holdings of all the gentlemen in this room come to little more than ten percent of the company, and none of us can afford to make bids on the level she has. She's got us."

"So why don't you let her finish the takeover?"

"Because, she'll fire the lot of us the first chance she gets, Mr. Freeman. It's the way she does things."

"But you all have enough capital elsewhere. You wouldn't be hurting financially."

"That's not the point, Mr. Freeman," he stressed. "We've worked hard to earn our positions here. My family has sat on the board of Carter Oil for over ninety years. This is a company hallowed by time and tradition, and we're not about to let Devereux blow it all out of the water."

A long silence followed. Rich continued to blow smoke.

"There's also the matter of businessman's pride," Henderson began again. "Ms. Devereux has shown an uncanny amount of arrogance in this matter. Arrogance and gall. She called me up. She called me up two hours before she started the bid and actually told me she was going to gut this company right out from under me. Can you believe that?! It's shocking really."

"So you want me to break into her files and find some really juicy goods you can blackmail her with? Is that what your hallowed tradition tells you to do?"

"As I said, Mr. Freeman, she's left us with no choice."

"Whatever." He cupped his cigarette in his right hand and stood up. "Are you sure she's got something worth hiding?"

"Read the file, Mr. Freeman, and see for yourself. How she's kept clear of the feds is anyone's guess, but she can't have gotten where she has without hiding a few skeletons somewhere."

"You realize I probably won't be able to access her system from here. I'll have to fly to her office in San Francisco and get into the building somehow."

"That shouldn't be a problem. We estimate Devereux Inc. will not complete its buy-out proceedings for at least another week. That gives you plenty of time to get over there and do whatever you need to."

"That's not the point, Mr. Henderson," he mocked the other man's earlier comment. "The point is, if I have to go in myself, then the chances of my getting caught increase substantially. And if I get caught, I go to jail. And if I go to jail, I take you and your fun-loving gang with me."

"We'll pay you enough to make it worthwhile. Money is no object, Mr. Freeman, I assure you."

Silence followed.

"Ten million. In advance, all of it. No deals, no haggling. You get that money into my account by five o'clock tonight, and I'll be on the plane at five fifteen. If not, I sit back and watch Carter Oil go down the drain."

There was a slight rustling of chairs before Henderson spoke again. "Ten million it is, Mr. Freeman."

Rich's tight grin returned and he brought his cigarette back up to his mouth.

"Good. Give me seventy-two hours and I'll have what you need."

"Can we be assured of that?"

"My reputation stands for itself. And like you said, she's got something to hide. Seventy-two hours, and I'll have enough on your little girl to keep her out of your hair forever."

"You have a deal, Mr. Freeman. We'll have the money sent to you before lunch."

Rich straightened his tie and picked up the file. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you gentlemen."

He drove home quickly through the sluggish Manhattan traffic and locked the door behind him. His penthouse apartment afforded a beautiful view of North Central Park. Not quite as nice a view as the Carter Oil building, but it had its charms. Before attending to business, he went out and watered the canopy of plants on his balcony. They blended in well with the leafy expanse of Central Park, and lent Rich a strong sense of peace. The rich living green gave a wholesome air to New York, hiding the city's rot and corruption beneath it.

He allowed himself to drink in the view for a short time, then turned and went back into the apartment. There was a job to do. He plugged in his laptop and patched into the net.

As he suspected, Devereux Inc. was pretty much impregnable from the outside. After dinkering around the edges for a bit, he made one earnest attempt to break into the computer system. The security programs in place had come after him like rabid pit bulls, and he had had to pull the plug in an awful hurry. He was pretty sure he hadn't been traced, but still... it had been close. Whatever secrets Tabitha Devereux had been keeping were locked up pretty tightly.

Inside the building, though, was another matter. And Rich had no doubts that he could get inside.

The plane ride to San Francisco gave him some time to review the files Carter Oil had given him. He opened them up on the tray table of his first class seat and began reading. After fifteen minutes, he was totally engrossed in the track record of Tabitha Devereux. They weren't kidding about this woman. Nobody was as good as .she was without having crossed a few lines somewhere along the road.

Tabitha Devereux was born thirty-eight years ago in Berkeley, California. She attended Stanford and Yale, graduating with full honors from both institutions. She belonged to several clubs in college, most notably the Young Businessmen of America. Beyond that, there was nothing listed in the way of extracurricular activities.

Her father owned a small pharmaceuticals firm, which she inherited upon her parents' death at the age of twenty three. By the time she graduated from Yale business, she was already skilled enough at making money to triple the profits of her tiny company. She used the capital from Devereux Pharmaceuticals as a foundation of what was to become a huge financial empire.

Tabitha never seemed to miss in her speculations. Every venture she made came back in the black. Worthless land she owned suddenly sprung oil, low-income property exploded in value. Faltering companies she purchased became strong and vigorous. Devereux Inc. was now one of the largest holding and acquisitions firms in the world, and it just kept getting bigger. Tabitha was the sole owner, and ran her ship from the top down, staying in control of everything.

She spent an inordinate amount of her resources on environmental charities. Greenpeace, Earthfirst, NWF, and a host of others. There was very little that Devereux Inc. didn't have a hand in. Enough money was flushed into these programs to bankrupt other companies, but here, it barely caused a dent. Tabitha herself seemed to place the success of the company's donations on a personal level, making appearances and giving speeches at various dinners and fund-raisers. Besides these charitable endeavors (a smokescreen as far as Rich was concerned) nothing much seemed to be mentioned about Devereux personally. She was a woman who enjoyed her privacy, and whatever else she did on her own time remained an enigma.

The federal government had taken notice of her track record, of course, and some of the more panicky members of the business world were a little spooked by Devereux Inc.'s success. She had been audited by the IRS at least five times, and the Federal Trade Commission had been all over her for the last decade, not to mention various law enforcement authorities who were dead certain she was engaging in some kind of high-stakes fraud. While there were no "official" records of attempted industrial espionage, the companies that wanted a piece of her numbered in the dozens, and Carter Oil knew of at least two other attempts to break into the offices.

None of them had found a thing. Devereux didn't have so much as a parking ticket on her record and the company itself was utterly spotless. The computers were airtight and the break-in attempts were all caught. The audits had come to nothing and the FTC couldn't find anything remotely unscrupulous in her records. A pair of federal agents had gone in undercover, posing as secretaries to try and get an inside view of the company. They were both discovered and fired before twenty-four hours had elapsed. As far as they were concerned, it seemed she really was that good.

Bollocks, Rich thought, thrumming his fingers on the sheafs before him. She had somebody high and mighty in her pocket, or else she had paid off the investigating agents. Either way there was something dirty going on behind her facade. All he had to do was find it...

The plane taxied at San Francisco international, and he took a cab to the Hyatt Regency. Once inside his suite, he unpacked his equipment and made a phone call to a local renta- car agency. Then he took a quick nap, just a couple of hours, before planning his assault.

Five o'clock found him parked across the Devereux building, watching the parking entrance with sharp eyes. Whatever else, Tabitha Devereux had interesting tastes in architecture. The huge concrete monolith that housed her offices was a testament to creepiness, sporting some kind of bizarre retro-Gothic style that played hell on the nerves. Buttresses and spinnarets flew out in all directions, jutting above the street like daggers. It was like somebody had fused the Sears Tower with the Notre Dame cathedral, and it stood out in stark contrast to the steel and glass of the skyscrapers surrounding it.

Rich hardly noticed the specifics of the building, so intent was he on his task. The regular workday was ending, and a small army of office drones was pouring out of the exit in their expensive-looking autos. He was less concerned with them, however, than he was with the people coming into the building at the same time. He squinted out through a tiny pair of binoculars, watching every face that stopped at the gate with focused precision.

Here was a tired woman in a Chevy, there was a pinched man in a Honda, moving in as their daytime counterparts moved out. The janitors, the cleaning women, the security guards, these were the ones he wanted.

It took thirty minutes to spot the right man. He drove up to the gate in a rusty red sedan, his dark face roughened and worn. He wasn't a perfect match -- they seldom were -- but we would do well enough. The guard hardly gave him a second glance as he slid a small card through the slot at the gate. Rich got a good look at the license plate, committing it to memory before the gate opened and the car passed on into the depths of the building. He lowered the binoculars, and started the motor, his tight smile returning.

Nine hours later, Stan Lawrence pulled into the driveway of his run-down Oakland house. He staggered up the porch and fished around for the keys, rubbing his back with his free hand. After several minutes, he found the lock and stumbled through his entryway into the tiny kitchen beyond. An ancient refrigerator dominated the room, rumbling to life as he pawed open the door and hunted around for an unopened can of beer. He didn't hear the soft clink of the pistol behind him, but Rich's voice managed to get his attention fairly quickly.

"Be very quiet, Mr. Lawrence. We wouldn't want to wake your wife up, would we?"

Stan spun around in a flash, his heels slipping on the smooth floor beneath him. Rich was sitting in the breakfast nook behind him, thrumming his fingers on the checkered tablecloth. There was a silenced .45 pistol in his hand.

"What the hell..." Stan sputtered. Rich cut him off with a sharp wave of the gun.

"I said I want you to be very quiet, Mr. Lawrence. Do you understand?"

"Look, whatever it is you w..."

A muffled shot whizzed past his ear, imbedding itself in the back of the fridge.

"That was your last warning. Do not speak again. Do you understand?"

Stan nodded slowly, his legs frozen in place.

"Do you have your Devereux Inc. identification on you?"

Again, he nodded.,

"Put it on the table." With shaky hands, he produced the card from his vest pocket, and lay it on the checkered cloth. Rich made it vanish with his free hand, then resumed his thrumming.

"Now your keys."

Stan complied.

"Which floor of the Devereux building do you work on, Mr. Lawrence?"

"T-thirty-fifth. A-a-accounting."

"Who cleans Ms. Devereux's office?"

"Y-y-you mean Ms. Devereux... the owner?"

"No, I mean Michael Jordan, the owner. Don't be an imbecile, Mr. Lawrence."

"L-Louisa Hernandez does the executive floor, b-but I don't know whether she cleans Ms. Devereux's office or not. She - she's an odd one... Ms. Devereux, I mean."

"If I want your opinion, Mr. Lawrence, I'll ask for it." Rich glanced sharply at the blue coveralls Stan was wearing. "Do you wear those every day for work?"

"Y-yeah. These or others like them."

"Good." A smile broke out on his face like a cut. With his free hand, he produced a thick wad of bills and laid them on the table.

"This is ten thousand dollars, Mr. Lawrence. Tomorrow, you're going to stay home from work. You're going to take your wife to Las Vegas and win big playing blackjack. Your car will be in the shop, so you'll have to take a cab. When you come home, your car, keys and i.d. card will be waiting for you. Do you understand?"

Stan nodded.

"If you tell anyone about our conversation, if you mention what has just occurred to any other person, if you inform either the police or your superiors that I was here, I will kill you and then kill your wife. Do you understand?"

Stan nodded again, his hands still shaking.

"She's very pretty when she's asleep, Mr. Lawrence. I suggest you keep that in mind over the next few weeks," Rich's smile vanished. "Turn around and count to fifty. Quietly, Mr. Lawrence..."

Stan had reached forty-five before he heard his car rumble to life and pull out of the driveway.

The following evening at five o'clock, Rich pulled in to the Devereux parking lot in Stan's beat-up sedan. He wore a pair of blue coveralls like Stan Lawrence's, the i.d. card secure in its pocket. It had taken a little doing to get his own picture imposed over Lawrence's so quickly. But it would suffice for the short time he needed it. The guard at the gate hadn't so much as looked at him, and the electronic slot had returned the card with nary a beep. None of the other workers seemed to pay him any mind as he stepped out of the car and produced a small metal box from the back seat. Just another lowly janitor slaving away for Tabby Devereux.

He waited in the plush elevator until the other employees had vacated, then hit the button for the fifty-third floor. He watched the numbers grow larger and larger on the automated board, then abruptly hit the stop button just before the top. He produced a screwdriver from his pocket and opened the access hatch, then shoved his box through the opening and pulled himself up after it, replacing the hatch behind him. The doors to the executive floor were directly to his right and above it was a small service duct, giving access to the crawlspace above the roof. Carter Oil had been kind enough to provide him with that information in their packet. In fact, they had provided him with an entire schemata of the building, copied from city records and telling him exactly where Tabitha Devereux's inner sanctum was located.

He opened up the duct with his screwdriver and slid the box in. From the elevator, it was a good forty yards or so to Devereux's office, and he had to be absolutely silent. This was the most dangerous part of the job. If the cleaning lady heard him, or if he tripped any alarms, his goose was cooked. He crawled along on his belly, pushing the box in front of him with a surgeon's care. Every sound that caught his ear was reason to freeze, every noise meant possible apprehension. It took him over an hour to cover the distance between the elevator and the office.

Finally, he reached a small vent overlooking Tabitha's door. Ten feet forward was another vent, this one leading into the office itself. Rich inched forward until he had a clear view of the hallway, then settled down to wait. He could hear the cleaning lady in the adjacent office, and wanted to let her finish with Devereux's before he moved in.

To his surprise, she ignored it completely. He heard her finished up in the other room, then saw her moving up the hallway from his perch with her cart of supplies. But she didn't enter Devereux's office. She didn't even break stride, moving past the door to the next office like it wasn't even there. Curiouser and curiouser, Rich thought, thrumming his fingers silently against his arm. Apparently, Tabby guarded her privacy to the point where the goddamn maid wasn't allowed in.

"Time to see what you're hiding, little girl," he Muttered, slithering across the hallway ceiling to the adjacent vent. Producing a pocket flashlight, he scoured its surface for any signs of security. Considering how paranoid this bitch seemed, he fully expected it to be wired within an inch of its life.

He found nothing. Nothing at all.

Now this was downright odd. She wants to keep people out of her life, she's got the means to afford any security system in the world, yet she leaves her office as naked as a newborn babe. He turned off the light and produced a screwdriver, loosening the vent with practiced ease. Peering through the hole to the office beyond, he scoped every inch for sound detectors, motion detectors, anything that might betray his presence to anyone. There was nothing. Softly, almost imperceptibly, he slid out of the vent and pulled his box down after him. Every second the alarms didn't go off jangled on his nerves and as he moved over to check the door, he received an even greater shock.

It was unlocked.

He almost bolted from the office right then and there, certain that he had walked into a trap. With a visible effort, he brought himself back under control. If he was pinched, then running wouldn't help, and he was certain that he hadn't disrupted anything. The fact that there was noth, ing to disrupt was unusual, certainly, but wasn't that what the file said? He exhaled slowly and reached out to lock the door. That done, he relaxed a little more, and allowed himself to turn on the lights.

The room seemed perfectly ordinary. Devereux apparently didn't have a secretary, but other than that, nothing was amiss. A wine-colored rug covered the floor, bookcases full of impressive-looking texts filled the walls. An oak desk sat in the center of the room, looking out the clear glass windows to the city beyond. The right side of the desk held a computer terminal, and several framed photographs lined the center. Another doorway broke the row of bookcases, presumably leading to a meeting room or some other functionary. Rich checked the lock one last time, then moved over to the computer, unpacking his box as he did so.

The start-up system was almost a lark, especially compared to the external security. Rich had full run of her files within ten minutes, and spent a healthy thirty going over her accounts. Nothing seemed to be there, but he felt he should save it just in case. He produced a small disk and inserted it into the drive.

A low buzz answered and the screen began to spew a series of gobbledy gook at him. The file charts vanished, replaced by an endless string of characters he couldn't quite recognize.

"Wha... ?" he started, thrown off-balance by the unexpected response. He was sure he had been marked when the computer beeped again and reproduced his disk. The strange characters vanished, to be replaced by the comforting green light of the start-up screen. He allowed himself a sigh of relief, and shut down the computer. The start-up screen was a good sign that he hadn't been noticed, but he didn't want to press his luck. He pocketed his disk and moved on.

It took him five minutes to locate the safe. Sunk behind a row of "legal texts", the chrome steel box was remarkably well hidden for one of its kind. The catch lay within the binding of of one the "books an elaborate mechanism Rich had only seen a couple of times. The safe beyond it was fitted with an equally imposing keypad lock, and when he saw it he allowed himself to relax even further. So there were some guards in this fortress. Flashing his teeth to the empty room, he turned back to the desk. His box sat next to Devereux's computer like an old dog, waiting to be unleashed again. He flipped it open and produced a small black device, about the size of a Walkman. It fitted over the keypad with a snug click, and Rich tapped a few innocuous looking buttons on its side. Fifteen more minutes of fiddling, and he had the combination.

The safe swung open on oiled hinges, revealing a small black cavity beyond. A stack of computer disks stood to one side, along with a handful of harmless- looking legal documents. What caught Rich's attention, however, were the three black leather books that filled the bulk of the safe. Reaching in gingerly, he pulled one out and examined it in the light.

Its binding was obviously very old, but still retained a great deal of strength. Cracks spiderwebbed along the cover, constricting the gold Latin letters still faintly visible across the front. The pages were in similar condition, and the text of the piece had obviously been touched up recently. apart from that, it told him nothing; Rich didn't know any Latin. He set it aside and reached for the next one. The title, at least, was in English but it took Rich several moments before its meaning became clear. A Hystorie off the Rites and Incantations of Newe Englande Wytchcraft.

Witchcraft? Was this a spellbook?! What the hell did Devereux want with a spellbook? In nine years of industrial espionage, he had caught executives blackmailing, embezzling, philandering, and molesting small animals. But never had me a member of the business community who practiced black magic.

"Maybe she needs to sacrifice a goat every fiscal quarter," he snickered to himself and flipped open the book.

Rules for the Bynding of Demons... Praservatione off Youth and Vigor... Transformation and Extended Flyght on Birde's Winge's...

This was too much! Was it a joke? She couldn't believe in this, could she? After a moment's consideration, he decided it didn't matter. Regardless of what Devereux thought of A Hystorie off the Rites and Incantations of Newe Englande Wytchcraft, she obviously didn't want anyone to know about it. Which made it perfect blackmail material. He peered closely at the cryptic pages, then snapped the book closed with a thud. It was deposited in the reaches of his box, and Rich added the other two before shutting the safe. He closed the box, and was preparing to leave when a thought caught him. Very slowly, he turned and walked over to the side door, his smile tight and predatory. With almost childish glee, he turned the knob and looked into the room beyond.

The floor was bare wood, the walls unwashed. The windows were blacked out, and a single shelf stood in one corner. A huge iron pot dominated the opposite corner, suspended by an odd-looking tripod over a modern heater. The remainder of the floor was taken up by an enormous silver pentacle etched smoothly into the wood. A circle of indecipherable runes surrounded it, marked by what appeared to be candle wax at regular intervals. Some curious-looking stains adorned the inside of the pentacle, and Rich moved into the room for a closer look. He crouched down and examined the nearest stain.

He failed to notice the computer on the desk behind him. It emitted a near-silent beep and the screen began to glow softly.

The tacky touch and faint coppery smell of the stains affirmed his initial suspicions. It was blood all right, although human or animal he couldn't tell. Whatever she was into, it had to be pretty serious if it involved spilling vitae all over the decor. He stood up and crossed over to the shelf, breaking the seal of the pentacle.

Behind him, the computer's humming grew steadily louder.

The jars were even better than he had hoped. Mummified hands, odd looking stones, various and sundry animal parts, all labeled neatly and pickled in formaldehyde. Wing of bat! Rich thought deliriously, examining one of the jars. She actually has wing of bat in here! Carter Oil was going to have kittens when they saw this stuff. He could barely contain his laughter as he tucked the jar under his arm and turned to go.

His eyes barely registered the now-running computer before a super-heated blast of energy blew him backwards. He crashed against the far wall and collapsed into a heap. The container shattered on impact, spilling pickled bat wings all over the floor. Rich slowly staggered to his feet, pistol in hand. Beyond the doorway, a steady stream of light was flowing out of the computer. It rapidly to a brilliant white, shining through the doorway like a second sun before vanishing with a flash. In its place stood a slight figure, dark against the doorway and obscured by the spots that danced in his eyes. He shook his head to clear it, and pointed his gun at the doorway.

"You've been naughty, Richard," Tabby Devereux said smoothly as she stepped into the room. "Hasn't anyone told you that trespassing is illegal?"

She stood about five-two, smartly dressed in a white blouse and grey business suit. She wore no shoes, and her panty hose swished silently against the floor as she approached him. Her scarlet hair ran down the back of her neck in a braid and she glared at him fiercely through a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Rich should have recognized the smile on her face.

"Devereux?!" he hissed. "How the hell..." he cocked the pistol and backed up slowly.

"Shooting CEOs is illegal too, Richard. Not to mention rude." She continued walking forward and produced a wicked-looking knife in her left hand. Rich wasn't be entirely sure where she got it.

"Lady, I don't know what you've been up to in here, but it doesn't scare me, and it won't keep me from gunning you down like a dog if you don't freeze right now."

She ignored him and continued moving forward, now less than ten feet away.

He fired, three quick reports in rapid succession that echoed through the room with a sound that belied its size. From that range, her head should have been sheared off, her guts splashed across the back wall like finger paint.

He saw the bullets hit the wall behind her.

He was sure they hit the wall behind her.

Completely sure.

Tabby rolled up her sleeve, flashed her teeth demurely and pointed her knife at Rich.

"Viskut'ra dominae," she uttered.

The gun flew out of his hand as fast as the bullets it had just spat out. He saw it pass quite clearly -- through Devereux's blouse and strike the far wall. It splattered like a glob of oil, throwing psychedelic colors over the bullet holes already there. Rich gaped, slack-jawed, an cradled his empty hand.

"What the hell are you?!" he whispered.

"It should be perfectly obvious, Richard ." She finally stopped several feet from where he cowered on the far wall. "I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. Or the Good Witch of the North, depending on your point of view." She spread her bare arm out before him, and ran her knife slowly up its length. The blood welled out and followed the blade's course, surging up her arm like a river.

"I'd have brought my black cat and broomstick," she continued. "But you caught me just as I got home, and I didn't feel like living up to the stereotype. Especially for you." The blood coalesced and thickened in her hand, lengthening into the shape of crooked wand. The flow from her arm stopped like a tap and the wound sealed up as if it had never been there.

"Spells on floppy disks these days Richard. Magic in the stock market. Same old tune, all new rhythm. What's the matter? You think blueblooded stock brokers and corporate lawyers are the only ones who like money? The stuff in these jars doesn't come cheap, nor do the proper books. It takes a lot of capital to fully realize something like this. Mergers and aquisitions are just the amusing side effect of a practical necessity." She waved the blood-wand slowly in front of her.

Rich decided he didn't want to wait and find out what her little stick was going to do to him. With a fluid snap, he brought his hand up and launched a vicious blow straight at the bridge of her nose. Before he could connect, she muttered a snippet of pre-Celtic grunts. His hand froze in place, a hair's length from her unblinking eyes.

"No touching, Richard."

A flash of white light blinded him for an instant, but couldn't hide the twisting pain that shot through his limb. He screamed aloud, the mask of his face shattered, and he slumped to the floor. As his vision cleared, he stared in horror at the warped, deformed lump of flesh that had replaced the digits of his hand. Lobster was the word that flashed through his mind.

"Do you have any idea how much trouble you've put me through?" Tabitha seemed untouched by his agonizing revelation. "Colocating isn't easy in the best of circumstances, and I had to do it on the fly. Thank God the computer was nearby." She flipped a wing at his shuddering form, the formaldehyde clinging to the soles of her feet.

"What were you thinking, Richard? Did you really believe that anything you could find here would stop me from gutting Carter Oil like a fish?"

"Aaaahhhh... aaaah..." For once, Rich was at a loss for words.

"Oh, stop whimpering. It's not like you don't have another hand. I could have done something far worse if I had wanted to. Do you believe me?"

Rich could only nod shakily.

Devereux leaned over and touched his nose with the wand, her green eyes reading every inch of his face. "Now listen to me very carefully, Richard. Carter Oil is going to be bought out and dismantled. They're sleazy, they're corrupt, and their refineries have a nasty habit of obliterating the herbs I need to keep my little hobby running. Do you understand?"

Again, he nodded.

"I'm not going to kill you, Richard, despite all the hassle you've caused. I'm getting tired of these little games and I want you to leave a message for me. I want you to say something for me to anyone who matters back on Wall Street. Do you think you can do that?"

This time, Rich could only shudder an agreement.

"The message is this: Tabby says hands off. Tabby says hands off. Can you repeat that? No, never mind, you're obviously too tongue-tied. Just don't forget it, Richard. It's very important."

She stepped back and pointed the wand at him. This time, the light shot out in a concentrated beam from her outstretched hand. It enveloped him from head to foot, washing over his crumpled form in a palpable wave. The pain and shock was all too much, and he passed out as the light overwhelmed him.

He woke up staring at the stars. The pain in his hand had vanished, and his legs were soaking wet. Memory returned suddenly, and he sat up with a snap.

He was in the middle of Central Park.

The trees and shrubbery were too familiar to be anyplace else, and a wild-eyed look at the skyline beyond confirmed it. He was back in New York.

He managed to make it back to his apartment building without being accosted. He passed the doorman with nary a second glance, stuffing his deformed limb under his arm. He was alone in the elevator and almost collapsed into his quarters after five full minutes of fumbling for the keys.

As the door closed shut behind him, he heard his answering machine turn on. He hadn't recalled hearing any rings. He pulled himself to his feet, shivering uncontrollably as the voice of Tabitha Devereux echoed through the room.

"Got back home safely I see. Not going to the hospital? I didn't think you would. Hospitals have too many questions, don't they? The hand should be all right; just stay away from seafood restaurants. And remember our little chat, Richard. I can get to you whenever I choose, and I won't be so pleasant next time. Hocus-pocus."

The machine emitted an electric buzz and exploded into a cloud of sparks.

Later, Rich removed his potted plants from the balcony, awkwardly pushing them over the edge to smash on the streets below. Somehow, they weren't comforting anymore.