A deader shade of pale, p.1
A Deader Shade of Pale, page 1
A Deader Shade of Pale
Magic After Midlife
Book 1.5
Deborah Wilde
Copyright © 2021 by Deborah Wilde.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-998888-27-6 (EPUB)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About the Author
1
You might be wondering: how did I end up knee-deep in a small lake on a Friday night while wearing a sexy black sundress?
It all started while I was on my third date in five days with Ben Myers, a blond and bespectacled lexicographer who my best friend, Judith, had sworn would be perfect for me.
And so far he was: we had similar political views, both enjoyed a good mystery and a good bottle of wine, and would never say no to a delicious meal. We’d compared the trials and tribulations of aging bodies: his thinning hair and my back pain, and had laughingly made bets on how long before either of us ended up in a mouthguard thanks to incessant teeth grinding. Ben even praised my daughter Sadie’s creativeness in her cosplaying, which boded well for future dates. But there was one thing that might be a deal breaker—for him.
I brushed imaginary crumbs off the plaid picnic blanket. “We need to talk.”
The salsa concert here at this lakeside park had wrapped up with enthusiastic applause, and the few remaining stragglers were now making their way home.
“Oh no.” Ben made a face, causing his glasses to slide down his nose. “I take it back. I wasn’t up arguing all night last Friday with a theoretical linguist about generative lexicon theory.” He broke into an exaggerated version of the white man’s overbite, doing some disco move with his upper body. “I was burning up the dance floor.”
I laughed and pushed his hands into his lap. “Never bust that out again. Go back to your word nerd arguments and losing track of time. Much sexier.”
Ben blushed and smoothed out his bow tie. “You think?”
“Absolutely.”
He jutted his chin up, with a mock-imperial expression. “Then I’ll have you know that I didn’t lose track. My watch had stopped working.”
“Are you sure you checked it?” I said, playing along despite my anxious need to get this talk over with.
“I consulted it at my favorite time. 11:59:59AM.” His mischievous grin made my heart ping. “It’s second to noon.”
I barely refrained from groaning. “I disagree. It seems your watch needed a hand.”
Ben clapped in delight. “You say you hate puns but you lie.”
“It’s all your fault. You’ve broken me.”
“Well done, me.” He patted his shoulder. “What did you want to discuss?”
Most people with magic were Ohrists, deriving their power from light, and many tended to dislike the few remaining Banim Shovavim like me, who drew their power from darkness instead. Historically, they’d even hunted us into near extinction.
Jude had assured me that Ben was not one of those people, but I had to check. Plus, I was curious as to his particular ability.
“Well, you see…”
A dying ray of soft gold beamed down upon us, the sunset’s streaks of warm pink and orange fading beneath a velvety indigo.
Ben reached out to tuck a strand of my dark hair behind my ears. “You’re lovely, Miriam.”
Our eyes met, my heart hammering in my chest and champagne bubbles fizzing in my belly. Talk, schmalk. This was finally happening. I gave a tiny nod, closed my lids, and leaned in.
The blanket rustled and the scent of Ben’s cologne drifted closer.
I pursed my lips—
Ben groaned. “Have you ever tasted anything so good?”
Say what? I cracked an eye to find my date shoveling my portion of the mille-feuille that he’d brought into his mouth, custard and flaky pastry oozing through his fingers.
I subtly checked my breath, wondering if he was trying to tell me I smelled of olive tapenade and needed to sweeten up, but no. “Wow,” I said weakly, “you’re really going to town on that.”
He nodded, cramming the last bit in. “Did you know,” he said, through a mouthful, “that the alternate name for mille-feuille, Napoleon, refers not to the emperor, but to the city of Naples, which was famed for its layered desserts?”
Now was not the time to entice my librarian side with interesting facts, damn it.
“I did not.” I trailed my fingers along my décolletage. “However, I can think of some other sweet treats to indulge in.”
Not even a flicker of interest. Ben licked a smear of errant custard off his thumb with a laser focus that had me thinking lucky thumb. “I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything this good.”
Okay, what the hell? I slammed the lid on an empty container and threw it in the picnic basket. My mouth was a marvel, my kissing technique sublime. Or at least, better than a mille-feuille. Had it been chocolate cake, I might have conceded the point.
Wiping his hands on a napkin, he inhaled deeply. “Smell that night air. Damn, it’s good to be alive.”
It was a lovely June night. Maybe he’d just gotten overcome with emotion? That was good, right? Who wanted one of those stoic types? I could get this date back on track. “So—”
Ben sniffed again. Then he jumped to his feet and ran over to some dude smoking a cigarette while waiting for his dog to find the perfect bush to pee on.
I watched, flabbergasted, as Ben ripped the cigarette from the man’s mouth and ran off, ignoring his angry cries. Right, then. Jude and I were so going to have a word about her definition of “perfect.”
Ben ran across the sand, kicked off his sandals, and hopped into the water, splashing loudly. “Yes! Feel the cold.”
He dragged on his purloined cigarette, flicking glowing ash off the tip.
My heart plummeted into my toes. On our first date, Ben had told me he didn’t smoke because of his asthma. Oh, shit.
I pushed to my feet and plunged into the lake after him. I’d finally mustered up the courage to date again in my forties, putting myself out there, and how was I rewarded? My shins were covered in brown algae, highlighting the patch of hair I’d missed when I shaved, the underwire in my bra was tapping Morse code against my boob, and fish slime oozed between my toes.
All traces of dusk were gone, the bright clear moonlight making it easy to examine Ben’s shadow. It had flipped from looking perfectly normal to being a diseased abomination flecked with crimson and sickly gray streaks.
I gasped, blinking away the moisture pooling in my eyes, my magic burning with the need to destroy that foulness inside him. Ben was possessed by a dybbuk, a wicked spirit made of rage and violence, needing extremes to feel alive. Murder or rape might be their more common nefarious go-to, but apparently a froufrou French dessert and an illicit smoke let this one revel in feeling human again.
Budding romances were not supposed to end in a body count, but this story didn’t have a happily-ever-after. There was no way to save Ben. His consciousness or soul or whatever was gone, and this malignant specter now controlled his body, his memories—and his powers.
A dybbuk could only possess someone who had magic.
I wanted to go home and grieve this stupid, senseless loss, preferably in my pj’s, while eating my feelings with the emergency pint of mocha ice cream stashed in my freezer.
But I couldn’t let dybbuk-Ben harm anyone else.
Ben took a drag and, blowing out a plume of smoke, tilted his head to the starry sky. “Fuck, I missed this.” His features grew pinched and he coughed, his hand pressed to his chest as he sucked down wheezing breaths.
“He had asthma,” I said, dully, kicking the cloudy water as I stomped closer. “A real killjoy. But I guess body-snatchers can’t be choosers.”
His coughing subsiding, he narrowed his eyes behind his thick black frames. “Well, well, well. You figured it out. Who’s a smartypants?”
“What, are you going to give me a scratch ’n’ sniff sticker for my effort?” I stopped a couple feet away from him and fanned second-hand smoke out of my face. “Let’s wrap this up, shall we?” I said, with the same enthusiasm as someone about to get a cavity search from a border guard.
He tossed the butt into the water. “Fine by me.”
The park was empty, but to any non-magic observer, Ben and I would just look like a couple of drunks stumbling around in the water.
Magic tingled under my skin like a faint itch. My animated shadow, whom I’d named Delilah, jumped to her feet, her fists up, independent of any contact with me. Simultaneously, I was both inside my body and my shadow, a bouncy, fluid entity with weight and substance. My vision also split into two: normal Miri vision and the green night vision of my shadow. I barely noticed the nausea this double sight induced anymore.
Ben stepped back sharply, the water slapping against his shins. “You’re Banim Shovavim! One of th
I threw him a bland smile. “What can I say? I’m a woman of mystery.”
Delilah leapt and kicked out her left leg with a sweeping roundhouse into Ben’s hip, sending him stumbling forward, water splashing into my face.
He regained his balance. “You’re a woman who gets right to the heart of things. I like that.”
Orange-green light burst out from his skin to cocoon him, its swirl of color pulsating slowly. Aura magic was rare but as majestic as a male peacock’s extended plumage, making me the drab peahen in comparison. I bounced on my toes. Male peacocks may have been prettier but it was the peahens with the advantage in the wild, since they could camouflage themselves and avoid predation more easily.
Men always placed such importance on looks.
But rare or not, Ben’s Ohrist magic was now the dybbuk’s to wield at will.
Delilah threw a left hook before he’d even straightened up, but the blow smashed into his aura like I’d punched a wall, with no damage to him.
I screamed and shook out my hand. Any injury to my shadow was felt by me and not her, and my puffy knuckles throbbed.
“I’d say you punch like a girl, but you didn't even land it.” Ben patted his stomach. “Come on, try again.”
Delilah and the condescending asshole circled each other, then he lunged, almost dislocating my shoulder as he flung Delilah into the lake. It broke my psychic link with her, and she vanished, my shadow once more an ordinary reflection on the rippling surface.
Ben sprinted to land, while I followed hot on his heels, spitting out the taste of fetid water.
I stepped onto the sand with a sigh of relief, my movements no longer impeded by the lake.
Ben faced me, his aura as bright as ever, and I steeled myself to end this.
Shadow magic swirled up my body and along my left arm in a black whirlwind, settling in the shape of a scythe. Yet another nifty trick in my arsenal. I hefted the weapon, its weight perfectly balanced in my hold and its dark curve sharpened to a deadly edge. This puppy existed to dispatch dybbuks; Ben’s aura shield didn’t stand a chance.
“Mut!” I cried.
The Hebrew letters for “die” appeared on my blade and I swung the weapon. It punctured his aura, but in the fraction of a second that it took to hit his chest, my shadow scythe deflated, hanging limply down.
Ben smirked. “I guess you’re just not that into me.”
“Hum a few bars of ‘Love to Love You, Baby,’” I said, “and I’ll get right in the mood.” I restored the weapon’s solidity and attacked again, but each time his magic made a mockery of my powers.
“Get it together,” I gritted to my shadow. I tried everything, gentle encouragement, inspirational speeches, even outright nagging, and nada. Every time my weapon hit his defensive magic, it deflated. All he had to do was stand there and let me tire myself out.
The scythe grew heavier and heavier in my hands until I recalled my magic, bent over and bracing myself on my thighs. “Well, I give up.”
I collapsed on the ground, and the meatsack formerly known as my date kicked me when I was down. As the blow connected with my ribs, I summoned my scythe much faster than I would have been able to do if I was actually tired and rammed the tip into the arch of his bare right foot.
I prayed my hunch payed off and that Operation Fillet of Sole was a success.
At first, it seemed to be: Ben jumped, cursing, and his orange-green light fractured.
Rolling to my feet, I next nailed him in the sternum, but my cry of victory was cut short because no dybbuk exploded out of his body. I narrowed my eyes. Shit. I’d missed his heart. Apparently acing a 200 level biology class twenty-plus years ago did not, in fact, adequately prepare me for this gig.
I swung again, but when my weapon connected with his still-fractured aura, volcanic heat burned down into my hand, angry blisters streaking along my swollen palm. I flinched, almost dropping the scythe.
His surprised look almost matched my own, then he laughed, carefully balancing his weight on his uninjured foot. “I never managed to concentrate my aura into an offensive weapon before.”
“Mazel tov.” I circled him, noting the weak spots in his magic light and reassessing my swing.
He pressed his hand to the blood seeping through his torn shirt, his crackling aura flaring bright in its attempt to meld itself into a whole, and nodded at my burned palm. “How’s the date working out for you now?”
I batted my eyelashes coyly. “Your seduction technique needs work, but don’t worry. I’ll bring you to a hell of a big bang finish.”
Some of Ben’s smugness faded away, his eyes clouding with doubt that he might not win.
I raised my scythe for the killing blow—
Then Ben stumbled back, blinking in confusion at his bloodied hand. “Miriam?” he said in a voice laced tight with pain. “What’s going on?”
I froze, my scythe still raised, warily eyeing him. In my experience, the dybbuk-possessed didn’t tend to blank out what had happened to them. However, I’d never been around anyone when the host consciousness had just died, leaving the dybbuk in charge of the body for the first time, either.
Ben stared numbly at the blood on his hand, and swayed, draining of all color.
I caught him, the scythe winking out of existence as I recalled my magic. “I’ve got you.”
In the blink of an eye, the thing wearing Ben’s body drove a sharp uppercut into my stomach.
Sucker punched by the old “confused innocent” act.
I gasped, my body bucking up under the blow. My eyes rolled back into my head and I collapsed on the ground, wheezing. That would teach me to show compassion to a dybbuk.
Black spots danced in my vision and our lovely picnic dinner from earlier threatened to make an encore appearance. I dug down for one final burst of energy and slammed my magic cloaking over me; the last tool in my Banim Shovavim toolbox.
The black mesh blended with the shadows to completely hide me.
Ben stomped around demanding that I show myself, but I rolled sideways. Not only was I invisible to him, he couldn’t hear my racing heart or my raspy breathing.
I finally managed to sit up, but the world swung sideways in a vertiginous blur, and by the time the nausea had passed and I’d gotten to my feet, Ben’s car was squealing out of the empty parking lot.
“Fuuuuck!” I yanked my underwear out of the crack of my ass, which, to add insult to injury, was wet in a UTI-inducing way, not because I was now limp and deliciously satisfied.
I’d turned down endless invitations from men old enough to be my creepy uncle/father and blocked dick pics accompanied by the stunningly original “hello beautiful.” I knew I was beautiful and my vibrator Lady Catnip had six speeds, thank you very much. Against all odds, I’d found a winner with all his own teeth and an awesomely dorky sense of humor who was single.
Gay, I could have handled. I mean, I’d had years of therapy for that particular situation after my marriage blew up. But no, he was honestly what I wanted, the complete package. He was also now a swampy-ass dybbuk, up to the usual bullshit.
Keeping one hand pressed against my bruised abdomen, I squelched my way back to my sedan. I’d once been told that it only took a dybbuk a second to upend someone’s life, and I refused to be the reason for another person’s misery.
Unlocking my trunk, I pulled out the small Rubbermaid containing my emergency car kit. I had a vague recollection from a long-ago first aid course that I wasn’t supposed to put ointment on a burn, so I used my good hand to crack a small ice pack, binding it against my blistered palm with gauze and a tensor bandage.
I slammed the trunk closed, my fury over the loss of this good man washing over me.
The world had a surreal edge to it as I started the engine. Even the familiar lakeside park looked fake, like I could push over one of the trees as if it were a prop made of nothing more than Styrofoam and paint.
Shivering, I turned up the heat against the chill seeping through my wet dress into my very bones. The situation was simple. Ben the man was gone. And dybbuks were an evil that could not be allowed to roam unchecked.
