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To make a frittata, you have to break some eggs by Armond *** Prologue. If Papa were alive, I'd palm-smack the back of his head. Well, after I grabbed him in my arms and told him I missed him so damn much. Let me explain... As a kid, I was pretty demanding at bedtime... -okay! I'll come clean; I was a monster- ...so, to have any hope of a decent night's sleep for himself, Papa had to give me my story time fix before I'd agree to shut an eyelid. He told me all the normal stories, I guess, but my favorites were the ones he'd brought from his days in a tiny Sicilian town called Canneto di Caronia. He set his tales in a world where magic existed, and the forces of good, the Wise Ones, battled the forces of evil, the Altri. Yeah, I know, sounds clich?d. That pretty much describes a zillion stories, doesn't it? What set Papa's stories apart were his ultra cool heros, the Stregheria Sisters. Every night at bedtime, they kicked some shadow Altri's ass and saved the Wise Ones from, you know, "doom." Like all great superheros, they had identities to protect, and so they wore magical silver masks. Papa scrounged a shiny mask from somewhere for me, and I was so dorky, I wore it the whole time he'd spin his nightly tale. Yeah, I was a boy and my friends laughed, cause my superheros were girls, so what. Something about them connected with me. There were five, five sisters, and I loved each one; Papa described them so well they came alive. First, was Isabella diStregheria, the amazing healer and empath. She performed miracles with the touch of a hand. Next was Alyssa, whose offensive spells were as cunningly cool as she was. Then came Daniella, the illusionist; Papa was extra detailed about how gorgeous she was. Miranda was the fourth Stregheria; she specialized in invincible defensive spells and nothing could overcome her. She never failed. Finally, there leader, the oldest sister, Evangelina diStregheria. She was as strong as her sisters in the magic forms, but what made her my idol was a magic only she had called "Lavoro di Via," or pattern magic. As a kid it was hard to grasp, but from the way Papa described it, it allowed her to see into the future, or even control it, a little. This was why the Altri feared -and hated- her the most. She was always a step ahead of them. I couldn't get enough of her, and Papa never tired of talking of her, either. Sometimes his eyes got all watery when he did, and he'd claim he had dust in them. Still, even with the fabulous Stregheria Sisters, this might not seem like a drama that would make a run at Lord of the Rings. But the thing that makes it different, that made me want to thunk Papa... ...was it all turned out to be true. 1. "Fini!" Lunch at Ombra della Luna ended ~finally!~ and I could start to clean my 'tools.' This was a good thing; it meant I'd actually used them, instead of slagging dishes all shift. I scrubbed each twice and stored them in my knife case in order of size: 12" microplane zester, 8.5" bread knife, 8" chef's knife, 3.5" paring knife and a 3" peeler. Anal retentive? Me? Guilty. ~So~ Guilty. Hey! What's the problem with getting ducks in a row? I was, or had been, a CPA, after all. Only a month ago. One. Frickin. Month. Seems like ten years. I controlled so little of what went on in my so- called life; I felt my 'neatness disorder' was a small comfort. "Jesus, Lance, everyone and their dog wanted a salad..." I paused, trying to wrap my brain around dogs eating salad; that metaphor hadn't come out right. "I mean-" "-I know what you mean. Some new obesity study must be out; this health craze will last exactly one week," Lance said. "You done good, Gina, me thinks our lass shows potential." I watched as our day chef crushed a garlic clove with the flat side of his chef's knife. From the assemblage of ingredients before him, escarole, Italian sausage, chicken stock, cannellini beans, fennel and -need I mention it?- garlic, it was obvious Lance was prepping Minestra Scarola e Salsiccia for the dinner menu. It's one of my favorite menu items; Chef Fiammetta's recipe tastes sooo much like something Papa threw together for us when I was a kid, only he called it Scaroli Soupa. "So, hot date plans tonight?" Everyone here was always asking me this, like I have an exotic nightlife. How laughable. "You so have the wrong idea about me and-" "-Oh! Lest I forget, pseudo boss man wants to see you." "Me?" I started twirling a black strand that had made an escape from my pulled back hair. "Do you know why he-" "Stop fidgeting, fair maid, he just wants to catch you before you go home." "Kay, thanks ...I think," I said, and headed out the kitchen door, after folding my apron and placing it in the laundry bin. Hey! Papa taught me neatness counts! Then I motored to the door bearing the nameplate 'Joseph Monaghan' and gave it a rap. "Joe? You wanna see me?" Gray bushy eyebrows peered up from an invoice mountain, and a smile cracked his face. "Enter if you dare!" Joe was Chef Fiammetta's business partner, and kept the paper flowing at the restaurant. He was like the wizard of Oz, a showy man, with no real power. In the weeks I'd been here, I hadn't decided if Joe looked more like Albert Finney or Bill Shatner. "Can't thank you enough, Gina. The dress is over there; don't worry, it's been dry cleaned," He said, motioning to a black cocktail dress hanging from a coat tree. "How much you think you'll need for shoes?" "Dress? Shoes?" "Yes, she figured you didn't own a pair of black heels so I agreed to-" Joe's eyes narrowed. "Roxie didn't talk to you." I shook my head; I had no clue what he was yammering about. Maybe he was hitting the bottle again. Joe's puffy cheeks reddened. "She's such a ditz! She had something come up and Maggie's busy too. Rox promised to talk to you about filling in tonight." "You mean as a ...cocktail waitress? Dear God, tell me you're kidding." "I know you're tired, babe, and maybe never worked bar before, but I'm in a bind. With your bod you'll make a killing in tips, and ...you score free shoes..." I ignored the 'bod' comment. And the 'free shoes' thing? Like I'm supposed to cream all over that? "I came here to learn to be a chef, Joe. I don't do dresses and heels, and ~Christ!~ would I have to wear makeup too?" "Busiest night, Gina, and our markup's highest on drinks." When Joe dropped to one knee, I feared the man was close to tears. "Please?" A plan formed in my head, a way to use this unexpected leverage. "I'll do it..." I used my best dramatic pause, "if..." "If?" "You get Chef to try me out as a line chef next week." "No way! You've been here all of three weeks? Lance just started letting you help with prep work. Are you really going to ask this?" I'll be honest; I can't for the life of me figure why was this job's so important, after all that's happened. Maybe it was my way of retaking control of one small part of my life? Heh, that sounds lame. Whatever the reason, I was desperate to succeed. To show Chef I could. "That's the deal." "So, you get extra tip money, free shoes ~and~ a shot at line chef? "Friday night, Joe, and I'm the one in heels." "Make sure the heels are skyscraper high," he said, after he let out a sigh. "And Gina, you'd better look damn cute tonight. I mean it, make up, hose, the works; I want men pinching your butt. Hell, if I have to face Her Highness over this, I want women pinching it too!" *** "Can you help me? I need shoes." The weary-eyed sales clerk managed to raise an eyebrow, but I could tell it was a struggle. "I assumed so, since you're here, at The Shoe Depot." "Yeah, okay ...good." This had not started well. There was nothing I hated more than shopping, but if it got me a ticket to train under Chef Fiammetta, I'd soldier through. "I need some black pumps." "Sure," she said, leading me to the shoe aisles. "Peep-toe, patent, sling-back...?" ~Shit~, I didn't recognize any of those! "Um, which do you recommend? And they need to be high ...high heels." The saleswoman took a longer look at me. "Do you own a pair?" "Nope." "Okay. Something classic and versatile." She took a pair from a box. "This is a 4" heel platform pump from Nine West. Good value. What size are you?" "I don't..." I frowned. My wardrobe was either hand-me-downs from Marita -who was the closest witch-bitch to me in build- or whatever fit from Goodwill. I had no clue what size I was. Hmm ...how to put this? "My size has ...changed recently, so let's measure." I plopped down on a bench, took off my running shoes and socks, and placed a foot on the sizer the saleswoman laid before me. "You're a five." I pulled out my small notepad from my pocket, and wrote the size down. "Great, so I'll try these in a five." The woman disappeared into the stock room and soon reappeared with a box in hand. I took out the shoes, removed the paper, and slipped my feet into them. "Anything I should know before I-" "-Wait! I'm confused; you're a beautiful young woman, with Mediterranean skin tone to die for-" "-Thanks, I'm Italian American." Yup, that's me, little Gina DeLuca, a black-haired Italian ~girl~, who tops out at five two, max. Oh yeah, I'm busty too, or it seems so to me. But a month ago... "I was going to guess Italian or Spanish. But, it's the end of the day, I'm tired, so I'll be blunt. You seem a bit ...fashion challenged? Like you've, um, never worn heels before?" I shrugged. She was right; I was devoid of fashion sense. I wonder what gave me away, my ratty jeans and stained gray t-shirt, maybe? Or that I didn't have a smudge of makeup on? Wait! Make up! Joe wants me to wear that tonight too. Shit! "Have you? Worn heels, I mean? Any girl as pretty as you must have-" "-No." I cut her off. What's the best way to put this so I didn't have to explain? "I've never had a pair. This will sound weird, but ...assume I was raised in a convent by stern nuns, on Iceland." The clerk snorted. "I get it, strict upbringing and all that. You should start with much lower heels, one to two inches-" "I need them high for my new job." "Which is...?" "Tonight, I'm a cocktail waitress," I can't believe I just said that. I stood up; it felt like I was on stilts. "Whoa. Could you ...help me with the physics of this?" "Oh honey, these will kill you, especially if you've never worn them." "Yeah, but I promised my boss," I said. Joe would pay for this. "A man, obviously," she said. I tried to approximate an 'all men are dicks' smile. Since I'm on the girl's team, now, solidarity, and all that. "See, I made a deal where I fill in at the bar, in return for a shot at a chef's position-" "-You want to be a chef? That's great, hun, but would you ever consider wearing these to cook in?' "No, of course not, but-" "-Waiting tables will be worse. If your boss wants high heels, let him wear them, you should stick with comfortable shoes." "I hear you, but I gave my word. Could you please-" "-I'll talk you through it, sweetie, I feel bad for you, is all." Over the next minutes, I staggered back and forth in the store aisle like a stork on ice, to comments like, "keep your ankles from wobbling," "don't walk with stiff knees," and "shoulders back and head up high." Joe would ~bleed~ for this. "How in God's name can I serve drinks if I can't walk?" "You'll do fine, you're getting the hang of it already, but your feet will scream murder after your shift." I paid this 'Mother Theresa of the Shoes' from the cash Joe had given me -with nine dollars to spare, thank very much- and started to walk out, when I remembered again. Make up. ~Double shit!~ "You've been such a great help, I was wondering," I said, twirling one of my stray dark curls, "what can you tell me about make up? And hose?" "You~ were~ raised in a convent," she said. "Okay, I'm no one's fashion queen, but I'll give you a few tips." "Wait, wait," I said, reaching into my pocket again for my pad, "I need to write this down." *** 2. I arrived back at my brownstone at 3:30, and knocked on Marita's door. Time for my daily 'parole officer' check in. When her door opened, I stuck a white sack under her nose. "I come bearing gifts. We had leftovers, and I hated to see em go to waste." The Latina's eyes glittered when she peered in the sack; oh yeah, her chocolate radar was beeping. "Mmm, what are these things?" "Chocolate dipped cannolis. Fiammetta made um, and hers are to die for." Don't know why, but Fiammetta awarded them to me today. Not that I'm complaining. "Gina DeLuca, you are sinful," Marita said, taking the sack and digging in. Crumbs soon tumbled down her white blouse. "Yummy as these bribes are, they don't change anything. We won't reverse the spell until you show contrition. Some real emotion about how you hurt-" "-I wasn't trying to 'bribe' anyone," I said. "I thought you might like some, is all." "So, it's a peace offering?" Marita's eyebrow arched. Since 'post- change' conversations with me were seldom more than screamed four letter words, I could tell she was suspicious. I sighed. "I was trying to be nice." "What could possibly have happened to make a cold-hearted shit like you act human?" Her eyes did a quick scan of me. "Did sweetums have a tough day and she's looking for sympathy?" Tough day? I felt like I'd been rode hard and hung up wet - long shift, an obnoxious shopping spree, and then home to the bitches... Oh, wait! I left out the best part! I was developing a phobia that a motorcycle rider was tailing me. I know, it's stupid; why would someone be following me? But every time I go outside, I catch a glimpse of a rider in black. Lurking behind me. Like on my way home from the shoe store today, for example. So, yeah, I'd call that a 'tough day' and it was far from over. "I'm wiped; I was jumping back and forth between dish washing and prep work." I turned to dash up the stairwell to my bedroom. I've learned it's best to keep conversations with the witch-bitches to short grunts. "Well, see ya-" Marita pawed the other items I held, a garment bag and large shoe store sack. "What's all this?" "Stuff. Working bar tonight." Marita 'oohed' when she peered in the garment bag. "Cute dress. Wait ...are you going to waitress?" "Yes," I said, and dropped my head to avoid eye contact. Which caused my stupid black hair to flop across my cute little stupid face. Crap! This waitressing news would be big gossip for 'the coven.' "Just tonight. So I can get a shot at line chef." Marita inventoried the other items in the sack. "Little black dress, high heels, mascara, blush, lip balm, and pantyhose? My, my, our Gina is embracing her feminine side. The others will scream! You've got to let me snap a pic before you leave." "Fuck you," I said, snatching back the bag of cannolis. "Never should have offered em; pearls before swine." Marita shrugged. "Our rules are clear; you can leave anytime you want." "And stay like ~this~ for the rest of my life!" "You make it sound like a disease; yet half the world's population shares your newly acquired gender. You're beautiful, healthy and in your prime. I've always felt lucky to be born a woman, but hey, that's me-" "-I've got no identity, lost my degrees, my savings-" "-Which is why we offered door number 2; a simple proposition, move into Anne's empty flat, and live with us until you show remorse. You grabbed that one pretty fast, as I recall, once you sobered up." "What choice did I have? Live in my old apartment until my money ran out, or I get arrested for stealing my own stuff? You bitches totally fucked my life- "-~Poor baby~. Things could be worse; you could be locked away in a loony bin, and the high point of your day is when Nurse Ratched gives you happy pills. Oh, wait, that's ~Carol's~ life now." "I didn't drive her to that ...or anything." "Cause and effect; you knew how fragile she was, you dumped her, she tried to kill herself and came close to succeeding. And then the men in the white coats arrived." "You didn't have the right to do this to me!" "Right?" Marita barked a laugh. "I'm sure you've noticed; we're ~witches~, we don't need any ~right~. We do things because we can. We hoped a change of perspective might do your soul good. That time spent, living as a woman would help you appreciate the damage you inflicted on Carol." So there it is; my deep dark secret. Unbelievable, I know, but I live with the proof every day. One month ago, I was normal CPA John DeLuca. Some might have called my life boring, but I thought I was hitting my stride as I hit my thirties - I had a solid client base, a reasonable number of friends, and a growing 401K. Never had any family to speak of -how sad for an Italian American is that?- since my mother disappeared when I was two, and Papa died from a heart attack a month after he saw me graduate from college. But I was planning for a family of my own; I'd projected age 35 to be the optimum time to start one. Plenty of tax moves to make before that could happen. Oh, and finding a mate. That had to happen too. By my calculations, I needed one identified by the time I turned 33. So I was dating around, looking for someone who was a good fit, stable job, wanted four or five kids. I met Carol at the Novel Hovel bookstore. She seemed so caring I couldn't help but be drawn to her. We dated steady for seven or eight months, but toward the end, she became, well, unstable; manic and blissful one moment, shrieking at me the next. I didn't want to hurt her, but insanity didn't fit my program. I prepared and delivered a well-organized speech -I left out the powerpoint slides- about how important it was for us to make a clean break. I felt bad -I did- when I heard of her mental meltdown, her suicide attempt, and institutionalization. I didn't think I was responsible, so, I moved on. Or so I'd thought. The witch-bitches saw it differently; they blamed me for Carol's madness. One night, after 'John' went to sleep they worked their magic, and when I woke up, -presto!- I'm Gina. It's been demented ever since. "Oooo, it was altruism; you were doing this with my best interests in mind," I said, making my voice syrupy bright. "What a crock! This is revenge, pure and simple." Marita's eyes darkened and she leaned close. "If that were so, we could have done something far worse than change you into cute little Gina. We still might. You're a month into this, and haven't learned a damn thing, still an unfeeling bastard. I told Sara it was a hopeless exercise when she proposed the 'project'..." Sara came up with the original sick idea? I'd wondered. What did she have against me? "...and we vetoed Beth's idea to turn you into a bitch dog in heat; maybe we need to revisit that." My stomach spun; they ~could~ do that, right? Based on what they'd already done. "I ...I'm sorry," I stammered and tried to back away from her. "Aw, now you look like a frightened bunny. I didn't say we would, only that we could. You would do well to remember it. Hop along and change, little rabbit. But knock on my door before you go; I ~will~ get my snaps of you in your little black dress." I bit back the 'fuck you' that was crawling out my lips. I gave a quick head nod, and scrambled up the stairs to my second story prison, er, flat. *** Dammit, that saleswoman was right; I was hobbling in my heels after a couple of hours; if I was a horse they'd of shot me to put me out of my misery. And each time I went into the kitchen for appetizers, I felt Fiammetta's eyes on me. Joe must have delivered my line chef request. After we'd seen the back of our last patron head out our door into the crisp fall night, I motored to the kitchen for my change of clothes. I ~so~ wanted to jump off these torture devices and slip into my comfy Nikes and jeans. Fiammetta was waiting for me at the order counter. Uh-oh. "Is this about my line chef request, ma'am?" She took off her black baseball cap with its Palermo Golden Eagle... -Papa would have loved her hat; he only followed Italian league soccer. I could never get him interested in American sports- ...and lustrous black ringlets spilled down. Master Chef Vania Fiammetta, what to make of her? An icon of the culinary world, she had a reputation for being tough as nails; no one dared call her by her first name, ~ever~. Or at least, no one did who lived to tell the tale. Yet for all her toughness, she looked young to me, young and beautiful; mid thirties tops. Hazel eyes and Monica Belluci lips. You'd expect I'd have been attracted to her Italian beauty -or would have been attracted, if I was still John- but no. Niente. Zip. Don't get me wrong, I felt a ...a kind of deep warmth for her that was like friendship or something. Even though she treated me like shit. I can't explain it. "I have seen how the patrons' heads spin at you, tonight; you enjoy this role, yes?" This was how it would go down? She was going to trash my request? "I guess Joe talked to you about-" "-Let me finish. You should not be hiding under baggy clothes, in your black dress, you are adorable, ~ mia cara ~." I blinked at the endearment. I hadn't let on that I knew some Italian from Papa, insults, mainly. "Chef, I'll work hard, I won't waste the chance to work with someone of your stature." I meant that. From my research, I learned Fiammetta was a rock star among chefs, bursting on the American culinary scene ten something years ago, earning a pile of cooking awards, including a James Beard. And when she opened Ombra della Luna, it won three Michelin stars. Yes, she was the best, and, again, for reasons I can't put my finger on, I'd been drawn here, to her, after my transformation. Fiammetta shook her head. "I see you at your prep station at lunch, frantically hacking instead of chopping and slicing." She'd been watching me? This was news. "I'm working on my knife skills, Chef, and-" "-Yet even a monkey may be trained in such skills." "But ma'am! I've read a chef must have these skills. And I'm practicing so hard." Okay, I was whining, but it was true! In hopes of impressing her, I'd checked out 'Le Cordon Bleu' from the Edgewater Branch Library and read the damn thing in one sitting. As I poured over it, I jotted down reams of notes about cuts, recipes, and techniques. Then I splurged and bought all the knives the book recommended. I dragged bags of potatoes, carrots, and onions to Anne's apartment -that was an interesting bus ride- and practiced, learning to dice, to julienne and to brunoise. And practiced. And practiced. "ENOUGH with what books say and the CIA tells you. What do you ~feel~ Gina, what do your instincts sing to you?" "The CIA cares about ...cooking?" "The Culinary Institute of America," Fiammetta growled. "Si, knife skills are important, silly pigeon; a chef must learn accuracy, economy of movement, and how to keep her fingers." Fiammetta wiggled her ten digits, then flicked back hair as black as mine. "Important too, are foundations of soups, stocks, sauces. These are the cooking building blocks. The great chefs talk not of truffles and foie gras, but of these basic elements. Why is this?" I had no idea, and answered her with a blank stare. "Because they instinctively ~feel~, the patterns, they see where the chop and slice lead to in the grand picture. And the best ...chefs ... shape it, ~influence~ it, conjuring a dish greater than the sum of its ingredients, something ...magic." She lost me; this synced with nothing I'd read in my cookbooks. "...I am thinking you do everything by the numbers, always computing in that pretty head of yours. To work the magic, you need heart, soul, and ~felice intuizione~." "I need ...feeling ...to be a chef?" "Si, to be a chef ...and other things. It is what you must find, Gina." What's with the 'feeling' thing? First the witches and now Chef? Why is everyone beating me silly with it? Was she talking about a woman's intuition? I hoped not, because I was shit outta luck there! "Even so, ma'am, may I start training for the line next week? Joe said-" "-Joe does not decide such things. My staff meeting is at 1 o'clock tomorrow. You will be here at noon, to show me what you can do. If you survive, your training starts tomorrow night." Tomorrow night? Great! "Thank you, Chef. I won't let you down." "Mah! One night with me and you'll beg to prance for our patrons in your little dress." *** What the fuck...? Two hooded and robed figures were shaking me. For a second, I thought I was back at initiation night in my fraternity, until Marita spoke. "Wake up little rabbit. We have a chore for you." Dammit! I work two shifts, one in evil high heels, face Fiammetta, finally crawl into bed, and the bitches wake me up after... -I squinted at my nightstand clock; it glowed 11:50- ...twenty minutes? God, now they're resorting to sleep deprivation torture on top of everything else. Would this day never end? "What chore?" I asked, though, through my yawn, it may have sounded like 'whayyore.' "We've got a situation," Patricia said, from behind Marita. "Jean's sick." "What's wrong? Does she need to go to the hospital or something?" I liked Jean; she treated me decently, and not with the contempt the others did. "Food poisoning, maybe? Since she can't get more than three feet from the toilet," Patricia said. "With Carol gone and Anne taking care of her mother 24/7, we don't have enough sisters to form a circle. We need a minimum of five women." Circle? Was she talking about their magical crap? What's this got to do with me? "Do you want me to babysit her while you get another, uh, witch to fill in?" "No, we want ~you~ to fill in for her. It's been too long since our last invocation and the ward levels are scraping bottom," Patricia said, and her voice had a panic twinge. "You want me, the one you've screwed, to help with magical shit? That's fucked up." "Why not you," Patricia answered. "It's not like we can grab anyone off the street or call Rent-a-Witch. You know about us, definitely know what we can do. And, thanks to us, you now tick the 'F' checkbox instead of the 'M'. I think you'll do anything we tell you to stay in our good graces. Unless you want to be a bitch dog." ~That~ got my attention. Papa's favorite saying was 'c'era beddu lu pitrusinu, c'ii lu 'attu e ci piscio.' The literal translation is funny: 'it wasn't such beautiful parsley in the first place, and then the cat went and peed on it.' Yeah, and what it means is things just go from bad to worse. Like maybe being turned into a dog? I so didn't want that, which meant ...I 'd cooperate. "What would I have to do?" "Come with us upstairs. Now." I huffed, threw back my covers, slapped my Rockies ball cap on my head to keep my hair back, and stumbled after them. *** "Strip." That I was still half-asleep was evident, because I didn't notice they'd shed their robes and were naked, until Patricia barked the order. "W-what?" I scanned the room, yup, buck-ass naked, the lot of em. That jolted my eyes open better than a steaming demitasse of espresso. Feeling a breeze, I looked up, and saw the skylight windows had been retracted, letting in the moon and stars. "Where is it," I said, as I scanned the room. "Where is what," Patricia asked. "The hidden camera. You're screwing with me, right?" "Not one word from you," Patricia said, pointing a finger at me. "We are skyclad when we invoke. "So off with em, ~now~." I didn't like it, but I slipped off my t-shirt and boxer shorts, and stood, shivering, still unsure what modesty applied to this body. It had been easy when there was just one part to cover. "Jesus, girl, we're all naked here," Patricia said, rolling her eyes. When I dropped my hands from my chest, a smirk popped onto Marita's face. "What?" "I keep forgetting how big we made your boobs." My stream of four letter words was getting monotonous, but how else do you respond to a statement like that? 'Yuppers, you gave me some major league knockers fer sure?' That'd be intelligent. I took the high ground and ignored her. Then I noticed Patricia giving me a weird look too, only hers was more analytical than moronic. "What are ~you~ looking at?" "Did you notice anything funny when you walked in," she asked. Everyone stopped what they were doing after she said that. Great, now all eyes were on naked girl. Okay, so they all were naked, but I still didn't like them staring at me. I'd been trying to survive in this new body, for, what, a month now? Developing the confidence to parade naked in front of people hadn't been a top priority. "Funny? As in how hilarious it is to be yanked out of bed at midnight to spend quality naked time with the bitches who stole my life? Yeah, the humor of it tickled my toes the moment I walked in" Something ~had~ tickled my toes; I felt an electrical itching when I came in, but I wasn't in the mood to be helpful. "She shouldn't have been able to walk in at all until our wards had been attuned to her," Beth said. "Shit! This means they aren't low, they're gone! Our asses are so exposed!" To my credit, I held in my snarky comment, that all our asses were 'exposed' at that moment. "Which is why Gina's here, so we can recharge them." Patricia waved at the seat next to her. "Sit, take my hand and Sara's, and keep your foul mouth shut." "Fuck you too," I murmured, and plopped down. After they witched me from John to Gina -and after I'd downed all the liquor in my apartment- I'd tried to figure how their spell had worked. I thought if I understood it, maybe I could reverse engineer it. At first I figured their spell might be like a recipe, with 'Gina' getting ingredients from each of them- my cheeks were cute like Patricia, for example, my skin was the same dark tone as Marita, and could my lips and large breasts have come from Sara? After time in my new skin, I decided that wasn't what happened. What I saw most when I looked in the mirror, were my Italian genes beaming through, and I wondered if my mother had looked like this 'new' me. Then it hit me - I was sitting at ground zero, the place where 'Gina' was born and John's life ended. "This ...is where ...you..." My mouth went dry. "That's right, luv, we did the deed here," Beth said, with a fat grin on her face. "Why, you're trembling, little rabbit," Marita added. "I'm freezing is all," I lied; these bitches scared me shitless. "Relax." Patricia said. "You're not here for hazing. Since it takes five women to make a circle and since Carol's loss was your fault, you will take her place. Simple, no?" "What do I have to do," I asked, unable to keep a quiver out of my voice. "You don't have to 'do' anything, except hold our hands and complete the circuit. Close your eyes if it makes it easier." I did, and didn't remember much after that; I was beyond weary, and the flickering candles and incense made my eyelids droop to half-mast. Once the chanting started, I fell into a trance. The next thing I knew, Sara was shaking me. "Gina," Sara said, "we're done. You want something to eat? It's best to take in some carbs after a session. I'd be happy to make you something." I gave a groggy headshake. "Thanks, but some chocolate cannolis in my room are calling my name. Was I ...any help?" "Gods yes! That was unexpected," Patricia said, and I noticed her face was rosy with a kind of incandescence. "The surge was amazing!" Marita said, eyes flashing, "So, looks like you got the Gift." "Ya think, Sherlock?" Beth was glowing. Literally! "We were at full power for the first time in months!" "And our wards are 100 percent charged," Patricia added. "Your power level is amazing," Marita said. "It's got to come from somewhere; tell us about your mother." "No clue," I answered. "Never knew her; she vanished when I was a baby. Can I go to bed now? Big day tomorrow." "Yes, of course," Patricia said. Then grudgingly, "thank you." They all continued to stare at me like I'd grown a second head. I snatched my clothes off the floor and made a break for the door before they asked me to do something stranger than hold their hands. *** 3. "Wild Friday night, Gina? Sexy tales to tell," Fiammetta asked, when I arrived in Ombra della Luna's kitchen before her staff meeting. First Lance and now Chef thought I had a hot personal life? How could I begin to tell her about the impossible ~shit~ I was living? Or describe how, this morning when I woke, my sense perceptions were off the chart? She'd think I was a loon! After last night's 'koom by ya' session with the witches, sounds resonated deeper, light diffused in tiny rainbow shimmers, fragrances and aromas drifted like smoke, and my fingers felt textures I didn't know existed. Still, Chef awaited her answer. I grinned when it occurred to me to tell her ~exactly~ what was happening. That should shut her up. "Sexy tales? Naw, the usual. The coven of witches that turned me from a boring male CPA into this hot thing you see, forced me to join them in their evil witchery last night. We got naked and cast spells by the light of the moon." Fiammetta let out a sigh. "I suspect you were as useless to them as you are in the kitchen, divorced as you are from your intuizione." Not the answer I'd hoped for. "I'm serious, Chef, that was all true, I swear." "Hmm. Can you use your newfound magic to prepare lunch? The troops will be here soon and I feed them during the staff meeting. The more they chew the less they talk." Fiammetta had gathered ingredients next to the stove: a bottle of Corte dei Signori EV Olive Oil, an open bottle of Pinot Grigio labeled -I'm not kidding- 'The Sopranos', a yellow onion, garlic cloves, butter, chicken stock, salt, pepper, a Parmesan hunk and a bag of Semifino short-grained rice. "So ...risotto." "A simple test to see if you may remain in my kitchen. Proceed, 'she who plays at being a chef.' Dazzle me." It was Papa's favorite dish, and I'd read how to prepare it, but ...I'd never cooked it. And I didn't feel confident enough to trust my instincts and wing it. "Um, Chef? I think I can do this, but, can you ...tell me your recipe?" "I'd be glad to," Fiammetta smiled to me. "Take out your little pad and pen." Happily, I whipped out my notepad from my back pocket; instructions at last! "Rice, broth and butter, then on the fire!" "But ...that's not a recipe at all! I need the steps, Chef." "And would you have me give you a recipe for life, too? The steps to follow?" Steps for life? I didn't know how the conversation had turned so macroscopic, but, yeah, an orderly formula for life sounded dandy. "Well ...sure!" "Mannaggia! I was not serious! A recipe is fine on paper, all neat and tidy, like an accountant's ledger. Yet, there is an ingredient all recipes leave out. Listen well. The person cooking must ~love.~" "Love?" ~crap!~ more 'feeling' stuff! "I don't understand." Fiammetta sighed, sounding so sad. "These are the things your mamma should have taught you, when you were a little one, mia cara." "I never knew her; my papa raised me by himself." "Then for now, for this moment, I will be your mamma, Regina." I blinked; no one had used my full name since my transformation, and the way it came from her lips sounded so loving, so un-Fiammetta-like. "It is a pretty name, you know, Regina. You were named for someone special?" Papa never spoke of our family. He acted like it was dangerous; I just accepted it was the two of us against the world. As he lay dying, he told me things, about my family, my heritage. My nonna, my mother's mamma, had been named Regina, he'd said, and so I guess that's why I picked the name after the witch-bitches changed me. It seemed ...familiar. "I ...you see, my grandmother..." Shit! I hadn't a clue how to tell Fiammetta about this. She must have sensed my internal struggle, for she patted my head. "No matter. Now, you spoke of magic, and I will explain that to you. For this risotto to be magical, ~you~ ...must love food, love to cook, and love the people you cook for." Fiammetta produced an ancient saucepan I'd never seen in her kitchen before. It was cast iron and finished with blue porcelain enamel. "This was given to me by my mamma. Someday I will pass it to my daughter." I felt an urge to hug her, which I fought down; I didn't want her kicking me out of her kitchen for molesting her! Focus, Gina! As Fiammetta handed me the oil, she told me why she preferred this 'vintage'; it was a good Sicilian 'all arounder', having a strong taste of black olives with fruity and nutty notes. When I hear this kind of crap from wine lovers, I dismiss it as pompous bullshit, but today, with my heightened senses, I could smell them. We minced the onion and chopped the garlic -that's right, we didn't mince the garlic; Fiammetta was adamant on this, that if we minced, all we'd taste was garlic- saut?ed till translucent, and ...tossed in the rice! Rice. Such a monotonous grain; I'd steamed it, fried it, microwaved it, even threw at people getting married before we all went green; why was this different? But it was. Soon I was stirring, to bewildering pronouncements such as "...give it love and attention, Gina ... don't think! ...let your senses flow..." My heightened senses did flow; I heard the sizzle of each grain, smelled the onions caramelizing in the pungent oil, and saw the grain starch releasing the velvety creama... I stirred, added wine, stirred, added stock, stirred, and ...twenty minutes flew by. "Turn off the heat, add butter and parmesano and stir ~con passione~!" While I did, Fiammetta added more hot stock. "Keep stirring, feel the roll of it through your body," she told me, "or, as we call it in Italiano, all'onda - like a wave." She scooped a spoonful and put it in my mouth. When I chewed my taste buds were pinging like a pinball machine. "Holy SHIT, that's good!" "Watch the language, mia figlia. Put it in a bowl and serve it to the staff at once, otherwise the risotto becomes clumpy and grumpy." I heard noise from the dining area, and peeked into it, to see the others chefs gathered at a table. When had they come? "Regina! Take it out now! Chi ha risotto non aspetti tempo! Risotto waits for no one!" At that I moved - I spread the steaming risotto into a serving dish, and hustled it into the dining area, where I set it in front of Lance. I took the last seat at the end of the table. By the time risotto dish came to me, it was all gone. ~Damn! I was hungry, too.~ Fiammetta launched into the staff meeting, going over the week's menu item by item - to me, it sounded like a general briefing soldiers for war. After minutes of questions from Chef, and grunt answers from the other chefs, I wondered, ~Why wasn't anyone talking?~ Then, ~They hate my risotto. It's horrible!~ Fiammetta must have read my mind, because then she said, with sugar, "Brad, Lance, why are you being so rude?" "Chef?" They answered in bewildered unison. "Little Gina prepared the risotto. Tell her what you think." Oh crap! Was public humiliation Fiammetta's plan all along? To shame me into leaving the kitchen? I closed my eyes tight. "~She~ made it? It's fabulous," Lance said, "I thought you cooked it." When a chorus of 'me toos' filled the air, I breathed again and faced everyone. When I looked at Chef, I saw wetness in her eyes. "Mah. You are welcome in my kitchen. For now. Tomorrow may be a different story, mia figlia. We shall see." *** I lived to tell the tale! Though a Saturday dinner shift with Fiammetta was more frightening than facing a coven of witches. Any kindness Fiammetta had shown evaporated in the ordered chaos -or was it chaotic order- of the kitchen when 7 o'clock arrived. A stream of shouts flowed from the waiters: table 4 is ~still~ waiting ...scratch the salmon for 12, now she wants the veal ...hey, Chef, special on 6 - man wants Spaghetti Carbonara, 'just like mamma used to make...' I was trainee chef #5, in a four-chef kitchen, which meant I was in everyone's way. The first station she assigned me to was vegetables. Tonight, Adam was working it, so I had to stand close enough to watch, but far enough away to not annoy him. Or anyone else. I failed, having to dodge two Fiammetta launched plates, and innumerable insults hurled as well, so creative they could only have been concocted by a world-class chef. Learn to be a chef? What was I thinking? It would take years! Suddenly, retaking the Uniform CPA Examination -one of the hardest tests in the history of man- didn't look so bad. There were over a zillion vegetable dishes alone. One of the sides, 'Roasted Italian Vegetables in Hot Balsamic and Olive Oil Dressing,' -Fiammetta called it 'a trifle'- was a complex medley of vegetables - fennel bulb, onions, garlic, red peppers, aubergines and tomatoes, oven roasted in balsamic vinegar, caper and olive oil dressing. After standing stupidly behind Adam all evening, I was allowed to solo one. I had never been so scared. All my life, Papa taught me to bury my emotions. It was more than a 'men don't cry' thing; he made it sound like something horrible would happen if I let my feelings out. As a kid, you don't think to question adults, and after a while, it became second nature to keep passions on a tight leash. Now Fiammetta was asking -no, demanding- the opposite from me; to cook ~con passione.~ It was hard, painful, but ...I let go of the leash. A miracle happened! Like the risotto, the vegetable dish came together. My senses -pinging stronger than I'd ever felt- sang to me that the fennel bulb and capers were the trick to the dish. I went with it. Fiammetta growled when I lurked by the kitchen door, trying to watch the patron as he ate. When the waiter relayed a compliment, I almost fainted. I suppose Chef complimented me too, by not firing me at the end of the shift. *** My good mood glow vanished when I headed to my bus stop. It wasn't just that it was a 'dark and gloomy night', or that I'm a foot shorter now. A feeling came over me that I was being watched. Again. Hey! After a forced gender switch and being thrown into a world where magic exists, I'm entitled to some healthy paranoia. A car would have come in so handy right now. How ironic; I knew my way around an engine, because Papa ran an auto mechanic's shop specializing in Alfas and Fiats. But buses traveled to my old office, and though I could have set it up as a business expense, the numbers told John the Accountant not to own one. A curse on my CPA stinginess! I looked up and down Lincoln Avenue for a source to my unease, but saw only street lamps, pooling yellow light on the asphalt below. I'd walked a dozen steps when a motorcycle revving startled me. I looked over my shoulder, and saw a dark leather clad figure screaming toward me on a Harley. Should I run? I didn't spot any sanctuaries; the shops closed hours ago. After the cycle whizzed past me to turn left on 14th, I realized I'd stopped breathing. That was the third time I'd seen the mystery rider this week; I was officially being stalked. Who was he? What did he want with me? I'd been a girl for a month and had already picked up a stalker? Not good. I was so fixed on watching him, I didn't notice the black BMW that had pulled next to me. "Gina!" I jumped. "P-patricia?" "The same. I'm your ride home tonight. Get in." "Yes, ma'am!" I leaped into the passenger's seat, slammed the door, and locked it. I was actually happy to see her. As the black sedan purred into the heart of downtown, I scanned the streets and buildings whizzing by. Maybe I was hearing things, but I swear I heard a motorcycle whine from somewhere behind us. When the sound grew fainter, I exhaled, and turned to Patricia. Wow! She was stunning, wearing a purple strapless dress and matching satin high-heeled shoes. Looking at the elegant redhead, I felt horribly underdressed in jeans and dirty t-shirt. "You're beautiful." "Why thank you, dear. A delightful man wined and dined me this evening and I wanted to impress. From your reaction, I gather I did." I hadn't meant to blurt out the compliment, and now felt like an idiot. I was so used to screaming obscenities at Patricia -at all of them- that I didn't how to carry on a normal conversation. I fumbled to fill the silence. "So, those are nice ...pumps?" "Thank you again," Patricia said. "They're slingbacks from Forzieri. You like?" I nodded; I was supposed to, right? "How much do shoes like that cost?" "Oh, under $300, as I recall." Jesus! This bitch turns my life inside out and I'm taking shoe tips from her? What'll I talk about next, manicures? Get a grip, Gina. I cocked my head. "Not that I'm complaining, but why did you pick me up?" Patricia smiled. "To the point; things at our cozy brownstone turned a little strange yesterday." A little strange? A LITTLE STRANGE??? What a spectacular talent for understatement this woman had! She flips my gender and calls it a little strange? I'd thought US sprinter Walter Dix cornered the understatement market when, after Usain Bolt broke the world record in the 100 meter sprint, he commented, 'That man was fast.' Patricia was now giving him serious understatement competition. I picked up an empty Starbucks cup from her cup holder and tapped on it. "Hel-lo, is this thing on? Sound check." I slammed it back down. "Things have been 'strange' for the last month." Patricia sighed, and pushed red bangs out of her face. "Fair point. From your perspective, it's all bizarre. I'm talking about a different level of strange; a new dynamic. You were temporarily part of our coven." "I sat and held hands with you. So?" "Jean's illness has shown how stretched we are. Until she's well, you'll have to join with us regularly, and once she's back, on standby basis." These bitches, who tormented me night and day, wanted my help? "Do you know how fucked up that is?" "Pretty fucked up," Patricia admitted, "but I don't see another choice. The more I think about it, the more I see a pattern to our rotten luck. First Carol breaks down and is sent to the asylum, then Anne's mother falls mysteriously ill, so Anne moves into her house to care for her 24/7, then this thing with Jean..." Her eyes went vacant as she chased some thought, which I could tell was scaring her. What scared a witch? I was about to mention my Hell's Angels stalker, when her eyes became lasers. "This isn't a debate, Gina. Your power boost last night was the one piece of good luck we've had in months. So, you're drafted. Cooperate, and we'll change you back sooner than planned." "Planned? Near as I can tell, you 'plan' to keep me like this forever, or at least until I learn some fuzzy 'sensitivity' lesson." "You dump Carol by telling her she's psychotic, she almost dies, then ends with a one-way ticket to the funny farm, and you think it's about a little sensitivity? So, you've still had no second thoughts? None?" I gauged Patricia's expression as falling somewhere between rage and incredulity. She was wrong; I had thought about it, a lot. Could I have handled it better? Gone to couples counseling, or tapered off slowly? "Yeah, I've had second thoughts. And thirds. But I wonder, am I thinking I'd have done things differently because ...of how I hurt her, or ...if I had handled it another way ...this," I motioned to my body, "wouldn't have happened." "What?" "I mean ...I think it would be two-faced to just say words you guys want to hear; I ought to mean them, for the right reasons, ya know?" I think I could see the fury draining from Patricia's face. "You ~are~ sorry?" I looked down and fidgeted with my fingernails. "How could I not be? If I had it to do over again ...I ...I don't know if it would have made any difference; it seemed like whatever was wrong with Carol started before our break up. But I didn't even try. I just ...dumped her. It was cold, unfeeling." "Omygod! Honesty! I should be thrilled to hear you say it. I mean, this is why we changed you; we wanted you to learn this lesson. But..." She shook her head, and looked past me again, her eyes glazing. "...something's not right in our coven. Something's ...rotten. I'm starting to think what you say is true, that Carol's breakdown is traceable to something other than you leaving her. So, even though you are feeling shitty for the way you treated her, you waited too long to see the light. Now we can't change you back until we have a replacement for Carol." I looked at the buildings we were passing; all blurs. "If I help, if I'm a ~good girl~, when could I get my life back?" "If we're lucky, we might be able to find another sister in ...six months? Let's use that timeframe for changing you back." Six months. I could do six months as a girl, right? I'd already done one. Something, my budding ~intuizione~, maybe, told me I needed this, to learn from Fiammetta. I'd lose that opportunity once I returned to repressed John DeLuca's life. For six months, I could dive into my training at Ombra della Luna. "Will you ...help me make sure things are in order with my old life? So that John's -my- disappearance is explainable? Maybe I can sublet my old apartment ...or post stuff on Facebook about an overseas KPMG assignment, so my friends won't worry...or ..." I was babbling, I knew this. But ...for the first time since they'd changed me, maybe for the first time in my life, I was headed toward a goal that meant something, and not following a tax planning calendar. I hadn't realized my eyes had teared, but there it was; the world had become blurry for me, or at least the 11 something view of it from Patricia's car window. She reached a hand out. "Work with us and we'll help. Deal?" I didn't analyze or hesitate; I shook it. "Deal. When's the next ...Bewitched session?" "Cute. Twenty minutes. When we get back, take a quick shower and come up to the ritual room. Tonight we do a purging on Jean." "Purging? What's that?" "Patience, novice witch. All in good time my pretty, all in good time," she said, and let out a cheesy witch's cackle, which I did my best to ignore. Fucking great. First I become a chef in training, and now I'm a novice witch? Hey! Why not see if the circus is in town, maybe there's an opening for a trainee clown. *** 4. After I showered, I threw on a robe, and headed for the ritual room. Oh goody, another naked midnight romp with witches. When I opened the door, I saw Beth, Marita and Patricia were busy setting up for this purging business. I felt the electrical itching again as I walked in the room. Weren't the ward things supposed to stop me? I shrugged, maybe they were "attuned" now, whatever that meant. "This bodes well, eh, Gina?" "Um, what does?" "That I didn't see any blood or bruises on Trish." Huh? This was a prelude, no doubt, to some shitty remark. I braced for it. "Yeah? So?" "So it means you didn't go postal at being drafted into the coven," Beth said. "She took it well," Patricia answered. She lit a red candle, and gazed into the dancing flame. "Well indeed." "Vague much? Share Trish, I bet she threw in a dozen 'fuck yous', right?" Beth had placed a bowl holding water at the '3 o'clock' position of the ritual table, and was moving to '6 o'clock' with a bowl filled with dirt. "She's remorseful about how she treated Carol, and agreed to help," Patricia said, and then turned to me. "That's fair to say, isn't it?" "Yes," I said and my voice grew soft. "I do ...feel horrible...for Carol..." "Yeah?" Beth blinked at Patricia in surprise. She must have figured Hell would install a ski lift before I'd learn my 'lesson.' "Well... fuck me running backwards!" "I was going to ask if I could help with setup," I said, "but it'll have to be something I'm still equipped to do." "Funny," Patricia said. "Best watch us a couple of times to get the gist of it. For now, strip and sit where you did last night." I nodded, dropped my bathrobe, and took my seat, still a little self- conscious of my nakedness. "So tonight it's a ...purging?" "A precaution; Jean worsened during the day, and we're starting to worry. Sara's with her now," Marita said, carrying an ancient book from the storage closet. She stopped and stared at me, with an odd expression plastered on her face. "Whatsamatta," I asked. "Um, don't take this the wrong way," Marita said, "but you're pleasant tonight." I shrugged. "I told Trish I'd cooperate, and I meant it." "It's such a hard 180 is all," Beth said. "You drop fuck yous even more than me, and it's ...weird ...to see you acting all polite." She was right about that, about my language. Thing is, I hadn't talked this way when I was John; I didn't use expletives at all. Didn't even think them. Part of Papa's 'keeping emotions buried ' program. After my gender change, something shifted in my personality. Maybe being a woman or hormones had something to do with it, but I was swearing in English -and Italian- all the time. Everything I'd locked inside as John, spilled out as Gina; I couldn't stop it. I tried to imagine delivering professional advice the way I talked now, saying to a client, 'you are so fucked; you missed three fucking small business tax deductions that you could have reported on fucking Schedule C-' I gave Beth my sweet smile. "Fuck. Off. Just cause I've agreed to help doesn't mean I'm weepy for you." "Whew, for a second I thought we had a case of angelic possession," Beth said. "Now you asked about a purging? See, Jean's been real sick for a couple of days now. Most likely it's food poisoning or a bug, but we'll do a purging in case it's something else." "Such as," I asked. "A sending." "Sending?" "Yes, shadow energy, channeled at Jean," Patricia said, sitting down next to me. "Is that what ...happened to me? You guys sent ...shadow energy?" "We transformed you with a sending yes," Patricia said, "but not with shadow energy, that's Altri magic. We sent a blend of Maiden and Trickster and we did it during a new moon, the time of creation." Whatever it was, the memory made me shudder, of the nightmares I'd had when I went to sleep as John and woke as Gina. I pointed at the ancient tome in Marita's hands. "I thought you used a recipe from your spell book." "Our Grimoire." "Yeah, I thought it was a recipe out of that." "It was." "But you just said it was ...um, a sending?" Patricia nodded. "A spell is just a series of words that trigger power. But the power comes from us, and from our gift to draw in the energy that surrounds everything." I threw up my hands. "I'm lost." "I bet; I'll start over. Marita, go get Sara and Jean while I'm giving Gina Magic 101." Over the next minutes, Patricia detailed a power source not taught in any science class, an energy field that surrounded all life, ebbed and flowed with moon phases, and coalesced around the archetypes of the collective unconscious. She told me of an ancient line of witches, or 'Wise Ones', as they called themselves, who were gifted with the talent to call on this power. Called the 'Craft of the Wise' it was a secret tradition that had passed from mother to daughter, for millennia. Finally, she explained how spells and incantations were the tools the Wise Ones used to activate and work with the archetypes and their many permutations, such as the Maiden, the Great Mother, the Hero, the Trickster, or the Crone. I understood up to a point, but it was confusing. First, some of the terms she was throwing around, like Wise Ones and Altri, were the same ones Papa used in his stories. I had no idea what that coincidence meant. Also, these 'spells' seemed like extra steps. More and more I was thinking the way Fiammetta was teaching. So, if a dish I was cooking called for saffron, I wasn't going to invoke the exalted saffron gods, I'd just -bam- add the spice. The trick was to ~know~ the dish needed saffron, right? But who am I to argue? They're witches and I'm just ...wait! What ~am~ I? "So, I have this ability to draw on this force too?" "Big time," Patricia answered, "Your mother must have had it, and it's been latent in you, until we changed your gender. Ain't it cool?" "Not sure that's how I'd describe it-" The ritual room door swung open, and Jean hobbled in as she leaned on Sara. "Gods, Jean, you look horrible," Beth said. Jean barely mustered a nod; her hair was limp-wet with sweat, and her face was sallow and gaunt. Sara propped her in a chair in front of the ritual table. "She needs a doctor, she's dehydrated" I whispered to Patricia. "We'll get her to one after we do this," Patricia answered. "This is a routine cleansing ritual, and should only take a few minutes. Nothing to worry about." Sara took a sage bunch, lit it, and put it in a bowl. When smoke curled from it, she started walking counterclockwise around Jean's chair, wafting smoke on the sick woman with her hand. When she finished, she sat and we linked hands. Beth peered at the Grimoire before her and started chanting in a language I'd never heard. Patricia leaned to me. "She's saying 'by our will we banish all Shadow and let in the Light.' Close your eyes and see it, Gina. When I closed them, a white sizzling built in my mind so fast I almost panicked. The grave tone of Patricia's voice pulled me back from the brightness. "Something's wrong," Even I sensed a presence that was ...malevolent. When I opened my eyes I saw *it*: Darkness, a physical ~thing~ smoked from Jean's silent screaming mouth, coalescing into a solid shadow in the center of the room. I didn't need a translation; this was vile; the sight of it made me want to puke. Dozens of oil slick tendrils sprouted from its writhing trunk and shot toward us. "It's a trap! A Slacina Shade! The purging triggered it," Patricia shouted. "Give me all you've got, or we're toast!" Wait! A ~what~ shade? Those things were in Papa's bedtime stories too. They were evil there and evil in real life too, I guessed, because through my link with the others, I felt their feral panic. Black tendrils slithered around my head, wrapping around my eyes and mouth. I heard whispers in my ears, and images snaked into my brain. When I saw what was going to happen to me, what this -thing- showed me, I wanted to screech my lungs out: It was going to feed off me, or harvest my energy, I guess, milk me like I was a cow. I'd be sucked until my soul was a husk, and I'd spiral into madness. The urge to claw at the tendrils and run became suffocating. "Hold everyone, don't break the circle," came Patricia's muffled screamed. I did, but Sara didn't; with a shriek, the tall blond jumped up and bolted for the door. I didn't think of following, couldn't think at all, because my mind filled again with scorching whiteness. I knew, I ~felt~ I needed to send it to Patricia, but how? Fiammetta's voice echoed in my head: ~Don't think. Let your senses flow, mia cara.~ Let instincts take over? Let go of my control completely? It went against all Papa had taught me! ~shit~ I let go. My power rammed into Patricia, and I saw electricity crackle out of her fingertips and into the dark entity's center. With a *snap* the tendrils yanked away and I could see again, except ...I was so weary, like a ton of bricks had been dropped on me, or I'd run a marathon, and my head started spinning. I'd given her everything and I was passing out. My last thought before my consciousness fuzzed out, was how cool the lightning looked flying from Trish's fingertips, just like in the movies. *** "Wake up, princess." But the bed was sooo warm. Wait! Bed? How'd I get here? "Little princess slept the morning away," a voice said. "Little princess needs food." I stretched my arms, squinted at the light, and blinked at the faces - Beth and Patricia- staring down at me. Then my stomach growled. "Merda! I'm starved." They burst into laughter and shoved a huge Panera bagels container under my nose. I fished around and found a cinnamon crunch. I loved cinnamon crunch bagels. "Heywaitaminute! Why are you being so nice?" They sat on my bed, getting comfortable, and their expressions turned all serious, like they'd come from a funeral. Uh-oh. "As you know, last night was scary," Patricia said. Last night! It all flooded back, and I whipped my head back and forth to see if ...that thing... was around. Patricia grabbed my face with her hands, but I kept struggling. "Gina -GINA- relax! It's gone." My body shuddered, thinking of its touch, its near rape of my mind. "It ...told me how it was going to feed on me." "Yeah, we all got that," Beth said in a shaky voice. I noticed how pale they looked, and not from lack of sun. "But it's gone, you said it's-" "-gone, yes," Patricia said. Channeling your juice, I sent it back to hell." "And Jean, she's-" "-Getting better. She started improving the moment the Shade was history. Marita's feeding her jello now." "What about Sara?" "She hasn't come back, but I called her and she's okay. She's ashamed she ran; she thinks she let us down," Patricia said. From the look that passed between them, I could tell they thought she ~had~ let them down. I took a deep breath and willed my muscles to unknot. "I was so mind- fuckingly frightened, I don't know how I didn't pee all over myself." When I saw Beth redden, I couldn't stop a snicker from escaping. "You ...did ...?" Beth looked away. "Can we not talk about it?" "Sorry. I would have too, I think, but I'm still not used to my new plumbing, and that must have helped me not-" "-PLEASE may we get back on topic and stop the urine chat? We've got lots to cover." "Sorry, didn't know we had an agenda. Was there a Memo to Coven I missed?" "Funny. Anyway, last night was somewhat scary..." Somewhat scary? Try hair-whitening petrifying! That thing terrified the bejesus out of me; ten times worse than any gorefeast horror flick I'd seen! Patricia was now Queen of the Understatement in my book. "...and we were almost ...enslaved by the Shade," Patricia said, "If it hadn't been for your amazing energy level we would have been. We owe you a full explanation about what's going on. In our world." In their world? I sighed; this was sure to take some time and involve many strange terms. "You didn't happen to bring some coffee with you, cause I could use a cuppa." Beth grinned and handed me a mug she'd been holding behind her back; it was still hot and smelled rich, acidy and ~great~. "Okay, you got me. Explain away." They did, but their explanation sounded just like Papa's stories - last night they told me of the magic of the Wise Ones, and now they spoke of a second, rival group of magic users in the world called the Altri, literally the 'Others.' The Wise and Altri have been fighting as far back as memory reached, though most of the worl