Chapter Fifteen

“Trash… Rubbish… I don’t know what that’s supposed to be. Oh, found something!”

Konoha danced between the shelves of the Archeological Department archive poking at trinkets and relics like a bargain hunter at a garage sale. She had dismissed the enchanted monocles as “amateurish junk” at a glance before skipping excitedly to the large steel door that protected the archive and unlocked it with a murmured spell.

The fox spirit was lavishly bedecked in a black silk kimono lined with scarlet trim and pink flower patterns. The luxurious garment fell from her slim shoulders and exposed plenty of pale cleavage. Drooping sleeves swept her sides while hip-high slits revealed thick, smooth thighs with every step, nine fuchsia tails weaving the air behind her.

She’s conjured the provocative outfit from the ether after their turbulent first meeting, assuring Franklin that his… potency had recharged her arcane batteries.

“What is it?” He asked, squinting. “Some kind of necklace?”

“Better, it’s a talisman of Solomon, Master.” Konoha held aloft a leather thong attached to a tarnished medallion the size and shape of a silver dollar. “He was an accomplished sorcerer who ruled the Hebrews and presented several of these tokens to Queen Bilqīs in a gesture of friendship.”

“Hang on. King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba were real?! What does it do?”

“Of course, my Lord. I didn’t know them personally, but the winds were such gossips back then and carried word across the oceans. As for the amulet's purpose, I cannot be certain. The magic has dwindled to a single dying spark. Shall I rekindle the flame?”

A gift from Solomon to Sheba? That alone was a noteworthy find. Front page news for the pitman periodicals!

And a gift to a friend wouldn’t be harmful, right?

“Do it.” He nodded eagerly.

“As you command, Master.”

Ghostly blue and gold flames wreathed Konoha’s hands. She whispered an incantation, clasped the silver medallion in a burning fist, and blew on it. There was a searing flare of light, then… nothing.

“All done.” The cheerful Kitsune proclaimed, holding out the artifact with another courtly bow. It appeared polished and was inscribed with a minuscule square script that wasn’t visible before. The opposite side was stamped with a lion's head. “I sense old magic, Lord Franklin. Divine in nature. A formidable blessing for any who bears this talisman. My first act of fealty to you will be fastening it around your neck.”

“Hold up a sec.” He backed away cautiously, palms extended. “We’ve still got no clue–”

A loud smash sounded from the adjacent room, glass breaking, followed by a litany of curses that would have made the saltiest seadog blush.

Franklin would have known that pissed-off tone anywhere. He snatched the amulet, stuffing it into a pocket.

“Shit, that’s Daphne. Can’t imagine what she’s doing here at this late hour, but stay out of sight. I’ll get rid of her.”

Daphne was drunk. Angry too. She knew it and couldn’t give two fucks.

Booze had always been a trigger. The match that lit the short fuse of resentment led to an inevitable detonation of indiscriminate wrath, searching for any target to vent upon.

Her court-appointed therapist, Doctor Shawna, said Daphne suffered from “a poor temper” and prescribed some hippy-dippy meditation bullcrap. Yeah right, like that was ever going to happen.

Doc could take her stupid psycho-babble and jam it up her dry, withered cooch.

Right now, Daphne wanted to break something. Something valuable to upset people. People who would be hurt by senseless destruction so she could sneer and tell them fuck off.

Let them sample a modicum of the miserable dumpster fire that was Daphne’s life.

This fucking school. She weaved her way through the empty corridors. kicking a dent into a garbage can along the way. Motherfucking Madison U, where did the cock-sucking admin get off, sticking her in the basement?

Daphne picked archeology as her major to work in the sun and work on her tan. To tour dig sites in far distant locales. To score exotic snatch across Europe, Africa, and Asia. All that YOLO shit.

But noooo… the douche-canoe Dean and his board of sackless twat-swozzles apparently decided that archeology was dead, then tried to bury the department.

Was that ironic?

If so, irony could fuck right off too.

Even Professor Hostler knew which way the wind was blowing. Her beautiful partner Micah had confided that the slimy old lech only had them searching for magical artifacts to hock on the black market. Cashing in his tenure to pay off a beach house in Cabo San Lucas, where he’d spend the rest of his days perving on underaged Latinas.

“Spineless jizz-rag!” Daphne screamed, and the proffanity echoed down the hallway. “Dickless shit-stain!!”

Goddamn fucking magic could suck her hairy muff too.

Humanity had been doing just fine without it before the Celestial Conjunction, thankyouverymuch. Nobody cared about a few wars, crop shortages, epidemics, and global warming before the Fae returned. At least, not anybody important. Mankind was handling its own shit and didn’t need a bunch of fairy-winged, knife-eared sluts poking noses where they weren’t welcome.

So what if the Winter Queen built a vacation palace in Antarctica, refreezing the melting ice caps? The Brazilian government never gave permission for the hordes of dryads and wood nymphs to plant massive new groves in the Amazon rainforest. And who did the djinn think they were, establishing order in the Middle East?

For fucks sake, that’s where all the oil came from!

Sure, fossil fuels became redundant once perpetual motion engines were magicked into existence, and water spirits cured cancer—all of the cancers—but that wasn’t the point.

The world was enamored with magic. Insidious arcane roots wormed into every aspect of modern life, and nothing was sacred anymore. Fairytale creatures walked, slithered, pranced, and flew down the streets like they owned the sidewalk.

Okay, maybe they were hot. Supernaturally sexy even. Surprisingly, many of the female Fae–and The Folk were predominantly, excessively female–were down to clown for some girl-on-girl action when the patriarchy of dick was absent.

Daphne had hooked a sweet slice of pixie trim while Micah was visiting her parents last Christmas (a woman had her needs, dammit!) and it’d been a steamy night, but she couldn’t respect a baby-crazy bitch whose head was turned at the first whiff of stiff prick.

“Faithless Fae whores!” A fire extinguisher skittered across the laminate flooring after connecting with her boot.

Oh, Micah.

The one ray of hope in the craptastic trainwreck that was Daphne. A gorgeous lipstick lesbian of mixed racial descent with long hair that shined like polished obsidian and the generous hourglass figure of a 1940s pin-up model.

She was tender and empathetic—the perfect counter for Daphne’s volatile disposition. She wore makeup and nice dresses, was extravagantly feminine, and a savant at using her tongue. That girl was a grand master muff-muncher, even more so after a fight.

And, boy howdy, did they have a lot of fights. Intentionally or otherwise, Daphne saw to that. She loved Micah as best she knew how, but a part of her was fundamentally broken. She was attracted to conflict, addicted to discord, a walking shit magnet who ruined everything she touched.

Her occasional indiscretions were proof enough of that. Uncontrollable impulses ruled Daphne. That’s what her therapist said in so many words, and that crusty hag could go diddle herself with a chainsaw.

If Micah weren’t the ultimate blend of drama queen and hopeless romantic, they’d have burnt the relationship to the ground years ago.

Perhaps it was toxic, but it worked for them.

Stalking past vacant classrooms, Daphne barged into the stairwell, nearly tumbling down the steps. She’d drunk alone in the Bent Spoke–Madison U’s seediest gay bar–because her supposed "girlfriend" was stuck marking undergraduate lab reports for the evening.

Their weasel of a Professor had foisted the task onto Micah so he could chase jailbait freshers. It ground Daphne’s gears to play second fiddle for a sleazeball like that.

Well, she’d show him the error of his ways by punching below the belt where it hurt most.

Straight in his dickbag wallet.

“Prepare to get smoked, cuntface!” Daphne howled, busting into the basement with the concussive momentum of a wrecking ball. The door rebounded off the wall, swinging back and making her stumble. “Fuckin’ shit. Oh, you’ve gone and done it now!”

The cavernous space was cast in deep shadows. Tools and scraps of paper littered the concrete floor. Only Frank’s benchtop was illuminated–the detestable weeb made a fitting target to kickstart her rampage. Very fitting, indeed.

A large glass beaker glimmering with a golden residue under a desk lamp captured her attention. Grabbing a nearby broom, she pointed it like a lance and charged with an inarticulate howl of fury.

Seeing double, Daphne missed her mark. Worse still, she’d gone in at full steam and slammed into the heavy workbench, folding over the edge with a wheezing expulsion of breath.

Everything shuddered at the impact. Several brushes and a roll of tape followed her to the floor when Daphne toppled onto her ass. Then, the glass vessel teetered like a drinking buddy before falling to shatter on the concrete directly between her splayed legs.

“Dickgibbon shitwaffles!” She croaked, scooting away from the jagged shards and sticky glitter. “What the hell is this crap?”

Slowly, laboriously, she climbed to her feet. Glass and gold flecks stuck to her skin-tight black jeans as though glued there. Fuck it, she was going to get plenty dirty tonight and would wear the badges of destruction with pride.

Daphne hobbled to her bench and snatched her favorite clawhammer in a triumphant fist—a far worthier weapon of retribution than that stupid broom. One swing sent a marble statuette of a lion soaring across the room in pieces. The tag tied around an amputated paw read; Athens. 390 BCE.

That was better. Fuck, yeah! Her blood boiled, demanding to tear the place apart brick by brick…

“Hey, Daphne… watcha doing?” An all-too-familiar voice asked. “Put down the hammer and chill for a second, okay?”

The weedling tone instantly raised her hackles. Daphne would sooner bury herself in a midden heap before letting a man dictate how she should feel, especially this arsebasket.

“Heya, Frank.” She snarled, not bothering to face him as she pounded an enchanted monocle into powder. Good riddance. “You don’t mind me calling you Frank, right? Here’s the thing: I think we are past overdue for a… frank conversation. To clear the air and bury the hatchet, yeah?”

Franklin’s wince was all the confirmation Daphne needed when she cleared Bernadette’s workstation with a broad sweep. Tools, notebooks, and a Mesopotamian bronze dagger were scattered like chaff. He had a smart mouth and talked a big game, but he was limp as a wet washcloth when the chips were down–in the presence of a strong, independent woman.

“My name is Franklin, but yeah. Stop destroying the joint, and we can chat. There’s got to be a way we both leave here safe, uninjured, and satisfied.”

“Maybe I don’t want to stop, Frank. Maybe I’m sick of this fucking university and all the bullshit politics.” Daphne patted the hammer against her palm like a truncheon. “Maybe I’ve had a gutful of your wandering eyes and pervy stares. Maybe the bill is passed due for some motherfucking payback.”

“I’m hearing a lot of maybes,” He said, trying to sound reasonable and backing away. “What can I do to flip them into maybe nots?”

“We’re way past any negotiations, pencil dick. You got my favorite jeans dirty. Where’s that dog statue you were jacking off to earlier? I’m gonna pound it into gravel.”

His piggy eyes dropped to the residue gleaming on her denim-clad calves and thighs. An unreadable expression contorted his dweebish face.

“Um, hear me out. You need to take those pants off, Daphne. Like, immediately.” He flinched when she readied the hammer to throw. “No, seriously! They’re magically contaminated–”

“You shitbag!” Spittle flew from Daphne’s lips, knuckles white around the handle. “I’m gonna crack open that melon and scoop out your brains. I’ll rip out your spine and peg you with it…”

“Think again, bitch.” A woman’s voice whispered in her ear, lightly accented and musical.

Ropes materialized out of nowhere. Red ropes with golden clasps wrapped around Daphne’s arms, legs, and torso, constricting in a heartbeat, trussing her like a Thanksgiving turkey.

They bit into her pale flesh and dark clothing, almost painfully tight. Restricting her movement until only her face and fingers remained free. Her uplifted throwing arm was wrenched down to her side so violently the hammer flew from her grasp.

What the hell was going on?!

Panic rose in her bound chest. A loop of velvet cord pinched her nipples through the thin cotton of her baby tee. The sparkly crap on her jeans had soaked through and made her skin tingle.

Daphne’s breathing became ragged, and every muscle tensed.

Not because she was suddenly trapped in a dingy basement with a noodlecock like Frank and his unseen accomplice. And certainly not because she was tied toes-to-tits in a complicated array of ropes and knots that dug into her most sensitive parts... Even the sensual heat gradually crawling up her legs wasn’t the main cause of concern.

No. Daphne was terrified of how much the sense of absolute helplessness excited her.

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