The Witching Hour

            His head ached as though he had been thunked over it with a hammer. As Lucky came to, he suddenly remembered the reason why his silver Jaguar now lay in a ditch on the side of highway forty. He raised a hand to his forehead, there was no bleeding but he could feel the beginnings of a nasty bump. He must have hit his head, he reasoned, though he didn’t remember doing so.
            The woman in white. Was she okay? Lucky craned his neck to see if she were on the road. There was no sign of her. Had he been drunker than he thought?
            “You weren’t imagining me dear.” A woman’s voice said from his passenger seat. Lucky turned his head slowly, apprehensively. “That’s right. I’m really here. You can touch me if you want.”
“No thanks,” Lucky said, “What the hell was that?”
“I had to get your attention somehow.” She offered as explanation.
“Do I know you?” Lucky asked. It was just his luck to run into a crazy woman.
“You don’t know me, but you know of me. Well my sisters and me.”
“Who are you?”
“I may not say. But you may guess. And I will give you a hint. My sisters and I are sometimes called the óskmey.” She smiled.
“Valkaries.” Lucky said without missing a beat.
“I knew you were a smart one,” she complimented him.
            He frowned. It had been a long night and what he really wanted was sleep. Not hallucination of deities or spirits or anything else. “I thought you only chose warriors who have been slain in battle.”
“That is only one aspect of what we do,” she said, “We also impart destiny.”
“Destiny,” Lucky scoffed, “I don’t believe in destiny.”
“Whether or not you believe in it, it exists and yours is back at the Flora.”
“Tuesday.” His face grew soft as soon as her name escaped his lips.
“Yes,” The Valkarie said. “One to give life, one to maintain it, and one to take it away.”
“What the hell does that mean?” His face was twisted in a scowl.
She ignored his expression. “You will need to find the answer.”
“How?”
“You will know when it is time. Now, its time for you to go back to the Flora,” She smiled a lingering smile and then she was gone.
            Lucky looked around. He was back in the parking lot behind the Flora strip club and brothel. He got out of the car and reached into his pocket. The buffalo head nickel was there. He wasn’t dreaming, but something strange was going on. This wasn’t right.
            “Shit,” he swore under his breath as he went back inside the brothel’s doors.
            Jim the satyr was still working at the front desk. Lucky eased up to it, “Tuesday please.” The satyr picked up a phone and dialed an extension. He spent only a few moments talking before he hung up the phone.
“Go on back. Last door at the end of the hall.” Jim said.
         Lucky went back to the last door walking past a hall full of closed doors that he hadn’t noticed the first time. The sounds of lovemaking carried themselves into the hall.
         He reached the door at the end of the hall and walked through it shutting it behind him. It was much quieter in Tuesday’s room. The walls seemed to drown out the noises from the building around them. “Its sound proof,” Tuesday said walking out from a smaller door. “I’m not reading your thoughts. Not one of my talents, remember. It’s just the first question that everyone has.”
         Lucky shook his head and watched as she came closer. “That wasn’t my first question. It was a question though.” She had changed her clothes, he noted. She no longer wore the skimpy lingerie of a working girl, but a black negligee that seemed somehow more elegant on her wistful frame. It tightened under her small round breast drawing attention to them.
         “Your head, Lucky,” she reached out and felt the bump. “You must come upstairs with me and get some ice on that.” She took his hand and led him through the small doorway and up a set of narrow stairs. The place was much bigger than it appeared. At the top of the stairs was a small apartment, complete with its own bathroom and kitchen.  The décor wasn’t as monochromatic. Instead it was a vibrant eclectic mix of hues and pieces. It looked more like a home then the downstairs’ room.
         “Is this your place?” Lucky asked while picking up a book from the small table near the door.
“This is all my place,” she answered taking a tray of ice cubes from the fridge, “this is just my own little sanctuary. Clients aren’t allowed up here.” She slammed the tray down hard enough to knock the cubes loose and placed them in a hand towel.
“So this is your living area and downstairs is work.”
“Oui.” She swaggered over to him and placed the ice on his head, holding it firm. “Why did you come back?”
“You know why I came back. The Valkarie sent me back.” Lucky accused.
Tuesday looked stunned. “I didn’t send a Valkarie. I’d never have even dared to call upon them. They answer to Odin only.”
“Swear to Hecate that you did not conjour the Valkarie.”
“I swear to Hecate, the triple goddess, the mother of all witches that I did not summon a Valkarie.” She said.
         Lucky believed her. She had given her most solemn oath that she had not used magic to make the Valkarie appear and so he had to assume that he was being sent on a mission by the gods. Perhaps he was being tested.
         “Oh the things we see during the witching hour, when one is out on a lonely stretch of highway. My grandmother used to say that was the time when the veil of the worlds parted and all manners of deities and spirits come to us,” She prattled off.
         He sighed heavily. This had been a long night. First he catches his wife in an act of infidelity, then she leaves him and dies, then he finds out that his childhood friend is a prostitute who thinks that her twin was murdered, then a Valkarie causes an accident to get his attention and sends him back to a brothel to help said friend. Jesus H. Christ, he needed sleep.
         He took the makeshift icepack from Tuesday, collapsing onto the bright red couch. It was softer than he had thought it would be as if it were made of nothing more than feathers. “So you’re flying back east tomorrow,” Lucky said. His eyes were half closed as he made himself more comfortable. He listened to the sound of Tuesday moving around the apartment, opening and shutting cabinets and closets.
“Yes,” she replied. “The funeral is tomorrow night. My brother will be there.”
“Charlie?”
“The only brother I have.” She half chuckled. Lucky opened his eyes a bit to see her placing a quilt over his weary body and lifted his head a little so that she could stick a pillow behind it. “You know, you are the only man I have ever slept with.”
Lucky raised an eyebrow, “I hardly believe that.”
“It’s true,” she offered. “I don’t mean had sex with. I’m a whore for Pete’s sake. But actual sleep, you know the kind with dreams. I haven’t slept with any man besides you in my entire life.”
“Why?” His voice was lazy from exhaustion.
“I don’t know. I suppose I never really wanted to. Kind of got use to sleeping alone.”  Her face held a forlorn look, as though she were remembering something. “Anyway, I’ll let you get some sleep. Stay as long as you want, I will try not to wake you in the morning.”
“I’m going with you. I liked Wednesday, it’s the least I can do.” He said with a yawn.
“Thank you.” She whispered.
He was walking…
He was walking down a familiar tree lined path. A path that he had walked a million times before. The leaves and twigs crackled crisply beneath his heavy feet. And then he stopped. There was the small river with its side stream and the large oak on its banks. He listened to the water as it babbled over the smooth river stones beneath it. The crackling of leaves and snapping of branches drew his attention away from the river and to the surrounding woods. He expected to see someone there, but all he saw was the fall foliage hanging from the trees in brilliant shades of orange and reds.
It was cold even for autumn in Wanona Falls. He had never recalled it being this cold. It felt more like winter. So much so, he expected the trees to go bare at any moment and the first flakes to fall.
He held his hand out. A brown leaf fell into it. He examined the delicate leaf, poking and prodding it until it crumbled in his hands and became only dust and blew away. Then the world began to change and the leaves swirled around him as they all fell from the trees, leaving them barren and skeleton like.
“Lucky,” The wind seemed to whisper. “Lucky.”
“What,” He said. A rolling thunder boomed in the sky and the wind went from a soft whisper to a howl. “I’m sorry.” He said sheepishly.
The thunder subsided and the wind calmed. Rain replaced it.
Lucky ran to the rivers edge. A raven looked down at him from the trees. He cocked his head to the side as he watched the raven. He thought about how funny it would be if the raven were to suddenly say, “Nevermore.”
But it didn’t.
His feet began to sink into the mud. He lifted them out only to have them sink in again deeper this time. He pulled his feet out once more and ran to the icy water of the river. He stumbled and fell in, head first.
As the icy water ebbed and flowed around him and the droplets of rain fell upon the waters surface, Lucky tried to fight his way back to the top. He was a swimmer and it shouldn’t have been so hard but it was. It was if there were lead weights in pockets.
He reached into his pocket there was nothing there. Nothing but that old buffalo head nickel. He held firm onto it, even as the water filled his lungs. He was drowning. He could feel himself drowning.
The water gurgled as he tried to scream for help. He thrashed about. Fear overtook him. This was the moment. This was to be his last moments. Somehow he thought that his death would be more dignified. That perhaps he would die in his sleep with his wife--scratch that, he didn’t have a wife anymore--with some companion nearby. He didn’t think he would drown in the icy waters of the Souhegan River.
“Lucky,” a voice called to him gently. “Lucky.”
There was a hand on him. An unseen hand and then he felt a sharp slap across his face.
Lucky woke with his heart jack hammering in his chest. Tuesday was sitting next to him, her hand on his arm. It was all a dream. It was all just a fucked up dream.
He turned over on his side and vomited water onto the hardwood floor. His clothing clung to his wet skin. It seemed to be too wet to have just been from sweating. He rolled back over and sat up on the couch. His breathing was labored and shallow. He dropped his head in his hands. “I was drowning.”
“I heard,” Tuesday said.
The first glimmers of light were coming through the curtains, illuminating the room in soft peach tones. Lucky shook his head. The dream was so real. How could it have been just a dream?
He took deeper breaths. He was beginning to calm down and get his bearings straight.
He recalled as a child how he had once asked Dr. Peters if a person died in a dream if they could die in real life. Dr. Peters simply laughed at the boy’s question and told him not to worry about such things. But to the seven-year-old Lucky, it was a very important question. He had heard of people dying in their sleep and wanted to know if they had dreamed of death.
I guess that answers that question, Lucky thought to himself.
“You were practically screaming. I have been trying to rouse you for a few minutes now.” Tuesday stood and went into the kitchen. She poured a glass of water from a pink pitcher and brought it back to him. Lucky took it and began to drink. “You should probably get cleaned up before our flight.”
Lucky nodded and placed the glass on the coffee table in front of him. He made his way to the tiny bathroom and shut the door. “I’m going to have some clothes brought up for you. You can’t go in those things. They’re soaked through and through.” Tuesday shouted through the door. He examined himself in the mirror. There were bags under his eyes and a lump on his forehead from the accident. He looked like shit. His five o’clock shadow had turned into a nine in the morning shadow and he knew he was in need of a shave. He opened up the medicine cabinet to find a men’s disposable travel kit. He helped himself to it, removing the bar of soap before turning on the shower.
         There was a soft knock at the door as Lucky stepped out of the shower. He wrapped one of the plush olive towels around himself and answered the door. Tuesday handed him an armful of fresh clothing silently and then walked away. He dressed himself in the black suit with its silver shirt and platinum tie and then walked out to the main room.
         Tuesday looked up from her paper and then quickly threw it away. “I wanted to read that,” Lucky said reaching for the white waste bin.
“No you don’t,” She insisted blocking the bin.
“Yes I do. Now move.” Tuesday didn’t move as he had asked. He cut his eyes at her, “I don’t have time for childish tom foolery. Move.” She did as he asked this time with a pained expression on her delicate face.
         The headline read as: Woman Dies in Tragic Accident on I-15. It gave Jill’s name, her age as thirty-three (though she was really thirty-four), and there was no mention of the poor toy poodle, Mimi. It mentioned some of the details of the crash, but listed no spouses or family. That was for an obituary, not a news article.
         And though Lucky didn’t love her now, his heart still ached for her death. He was not some unfeeling creature. He had at one point loved her. Even if their marriage was a bust, he never wished for her to have any misfortune. He simply wanted to be able to move forward, knowing that she would own half of whatever was left of the things that hadn’t been destroyed in the fire.
         He took several calming breaths and pushed the article out of his mind. There was just too much death in the world these days and going to the funeral of a childhood friend was what he could handle for now. “What time does our flight leave?”
Tuesday glanced down at the silver watch on her slender wrist. “In about an hour and a half. We had better get going.”
         Lucky nodded and picked up his wallet, phone, and keys. He walked down the stairs of the small apartment and through Tuesday’s “work” room. He waited for her, casually standing up against his car. He noticed the extra dirt. A sure sign that he didn’t dream the Valkarie.
         Tuesday’s face was somber as she carried a suitcase bigger than her out the door of the building. Lucky immediately went to help her, taking the suitcase and stuffing it in the trunk of the car. Tuesday got into the passenger seat and buckled herself in. “Are you okay,” she asked earnestly as he started the engine.
He put the car in gear. “No…no, I’m not.”
“Neither am I.” She finished and rode the rest of the way in silence.
         Airports in general are like tiny cities, especially those in tourist locations, like Las Vegas. There is always a contradictory feeling in them as though people can’t make up their mind if they are in a hurry or if they have time to wait. Perhaps it’s all the waiting that some people do and the hurrying that others do.
         Lucky held onto Tuesday’s hand while they waited for their flight to take off. There was nothing romantic about the way he held her hand. He simply held it firmly in his for the sake of comfort. Tuesday had a fear of flying and being on the plane made her anxious just as it had in her childhood. She couldn’t pinpoint the source of the fear, but if you were to ask her, she would have said it had something to do with the prospect of the plane falling from the sky. She kept her eyes shut and made a little whimper as the plane began to move down the runway preparing to take off. It wasn’t an irrational fear in Lucky’s mind. What if the plane did crash? It was plausible and highly possible.
         He began to hum the Waltz No. 10 by Fredrick Chopin, as he did so he felt Tuesday’s body begin to relax. He remembered how she used to play that melody on the piano for hours and hours, practicing to get each note perfect. It was one of her favorite songs to play besides Claire de Lune. As she played the melodious music, striking the black and white keys with a well-timed precision, he would dance with Wednesday. He was a terrible dancer and the waltz was the only thing he could seem to do a halfway decent job at. Wednesday would count, “One, two, three…one, two, three,” keeping time with her sister’s playing. And they would twirl around and around for hours, laughing and humming to the music in the brightly lit music room.
         Lucky had always felt the Peters children to have lived a charmed life. They lived in an extremely large house that could have easily been converted into a hotel, with all its grand rooms and a full size ballroom, where Dr. and Mrs. Peters would hold grand parties and costume balls. Sometimes they would have the children play at these events. Tuesday, the skilled pianist would play with her sister, an equally skilled cellist, and her brother, a violinist. All three of them had a seemingly natural knack for music and could play the classics as great as any of the original composers.
         He had to admit. He was a little jealous as he spent every possible moment exploring the rooms of that large house with the Peters children. For the few hours a day he was with them, he felt as though he belonged there, surrounded by all that luxury and splendid refinery. But then night would come and he would have to return to the small home that he shared with his drunken mother. It was the Peters family that taught Lucky to want the finer things in life. They were the reason he went to college and started working as a magical consultant, a vocation that he found to be very lucrative. At least until he married a Protestant who found witchcraft eerie. That’s when he started in software.
         The aircraft seemed to balance out and Tuesday opened her eyes.
Lucky ordered a drink from the flight attendant and waited for it to come. “Tuesday,” he said slowly, “why prostitution?”
“Why not?” She responded.
He frowned and took his drink from the attendant. “You’re college educated, you come from a good family, a respectable family. Why do you sell yourself like that?”
         She looked at him now with a thoughtful expression. “Let me ask you something. You went to a brothel for sex. You didn’t care about who the girls were or where they came from. And admit it, you were ready to fuck me until you realized it was me.”
“But I didn’t fuck you.” He said.
“No. You didn’t. But that’s not important. The question is why?”
Lucky took a moment to think about the question. “Because you mean more to me than that. We were friends, you and I.”
“We were. Perhaps we still are, only time will tell. But those other girls are somebody’s friends or sisters or daughters. What’s the difference between this whore,” she pointed to herself, “Or the next.”
“I don’t like you referring to yourself as a whore.” Lucky growled.
“Oh what’s the big fucking deal? I’m a whore. I fuck men for money and I like doing it.” She said.
“Lower your voice…please.” Lucky’s face was stern as he blushed.
“See that’s the problem with society,” she began. “Society holds onto asinine puritanical values that tell them that sex is dirty and wrong. Without sex, there would be no life on this godforsaken planet. Sex is what allows the so-called miracle of life to happen.”  She adjusted herself in her seat and removed her seatbelt. “Then there’s prostitution. Heaven forbid people make money off of sex. I mean, honestly, it’s no different than dating.”
“I don’t see the connection.” He replied.
“Oh really, you don’t?” She raised an eyebrow. “So you see a girl that you like and you ask her out. You take her to dinner and maybe a movie or a show or something. At the end of the night you’re hoping that she’ll sleep with you. She may or she may not. Either way, you practically paid for sex. Only what you paid for was the possibility of sex. At least with a hooker you know that at the end of the night, you’ll definitely fuck her.”
         Lucky furrowed his brow. She did have a point. “That’s a bit cynical.” He said. She shrugged and picked up a Time magazine that had been stuffed in the back of the seat.

Maison de la Lune
1892

The spring flowers had barely begun to bloom that cold March morning. The house was alive with activity as the servants prepared for the night’s party. A small grunt emitted from low within Emma’s belly as she held onto the bedpost while a servant tight laced the white corset, giving her the desirable Victorian silhouette. “Today is the day.” She said excitedly.
         It was a well-known fact that she and Robert Darkspur had been courting for two years, and he was expected to propose any day. Emma had found out from a few reliable sources that Robert had planned on proposing at the party her parents were giving that night.
         She found her prettiest party dress, blue like her eyes, with a pair of white satin gloves. Robert liked the way her hands felt in the satin gloves. He was always finding an excuse to rub them or kiss them. How her heart would pound in her chest from the barest of kisses from his soft narrow lips.
         Night could not come fast enough for Emma. She found herself anxiously waiting in the main ballroom while a fugue played, drinking champagne imported from Paris. She had accepted no dances, waiting for Robert and Robert only to take her hand and lead her around the dance floor.
         He arrived at long last and Emma’s face lit up like a million stars in the night sky. He bowed and led her to the dance floor to dance a waltz. It was their waltz, the No. 10 by Chopin. Emma’s heart was beating fast and slow at the same time as she marveled at the sensation of being held in Robert’s arms. “The garden,” he suggested. Emma nodded her head in agreement.
         Out in the garden, near the statue of Hecate, Robert kissed Emma passionately. His tongue found her mouth and penetrated it in such a manner it was hardly deemed proper. He released her abruptly, causing her to stumble a bit on her heels.
         “I’m sorry,” Robert said.
“Sorry about what? I enjoyed it,” Emma answered.
“No, not about the kiss. I’m sorry for what I have done to you. It is only now that I realize I have given up my chance at heaven for dinner with the devil.” Robert looked disturbed as he spoke.
Emma lowered her eyes. “What are you talking about? Heaven and devils?”
“I have become engaged this night. My betrothed carries my child and it is only right that I should…” He could not finish the sentence for the look on Emma’s face stopped him. Tears came from her crystal blue eyes, rolling down rosy cheeks. “I could not control my lust. I’m sorry.”
“Who may it be said is your intended?”
“Christine,” he said as if it were not a name, but a death sentence.
         Emma collapsed to the ground. The breeze blew cold across her tear-stained face and loosened bits of her honey hair. Robert reached out for her, wanting to take her in his arms. He didn’t. The statue of Hecate, at whose feet they were standing, seemed to move in warning against Robert.
         He reached into his pocket and removed from it a golden locket. She had given it to him the previous spring with a sprig of her honey gold hair tied neatly with a blue ribbon. He took one last glance at it and murmured, “I’m sorry.” Then he tossed the locket at Hecate’s feet, the golden chain hanging by a plaster toe.
         The weather warmed and people were generally merrier now that winter’s chill had gone away. But Emma remained locked away in her rooms at the top of the stairs, not seeing anyone at all.
         She languished on her diet of barley soup and the lack of sunlight on her skin, save for a tiny crack in the drapery of the window. Betrayed by her sister, Christine. Surely there could be no worse betrayal.
         She spent day and night reading on poisons until one day she brewed a tea with mandragora and belladonna berries. In her finest handwriting, she eloquently wrote a letter dispersing her possessions. Then she took a long bath before changing into her favorite dress, a canary dress with a white ribbon. She sat in the center of the bed and sipped her tea until finally she fell asleep…