Page 36 of Which Witch is Willing?
“Fuck. You,” Moira said.
And drove her knee up into his crotch.
Nick sucked in air against that particular sick, gut-churning ache dragging nausea in its wake.
And gods, the pain.
As his knees failed him and he crumpled to the earth, he hissed their names, welding them together with the filthiest words he knew in languages long dead.
Who’s fucking idea had this been? Which one of them specifically had come up with the idiotic concept of chaining an immortal to a human body? When he found out who, he was going to personally rip their spine out of their ass and beat them with it.
He was wrath. He was ruin. He was Conquest. And yet he could still be felled by a knee to the nads.
Nick tasted ash as he writhed on the ground, hands pressed to his crotch and knees drawn up to his chest.
Moira squatted down next to him. Close enough so he could hear her but not quite so close that he could reach her. “Lord, Cheeto. I ain’t seen a face that purple since Pervis Coy tried that auto-erotic asphyxiation stuff with an alternator belt and some engine lube. And just look at his eyes. You ever seen eyes bulge out of a head like that?”
The pig squeaked, a sound redolent with approval and good humor.
Nick prepared a scathing rejoinder, but when he opened his mouth to deliver it, all that came out was a strange, high-pitched, “Guhhh.”
“I’m sorry,” Moira said. “Say again? I’m afraid I didn’t quite understand.”
Nick dragged in a shaky breath and tried again. This time, he managed a very clear and emphatic, “huuuurrrf.”
“Right,” she said, turning to the pig. “I think what he’s trying to say is that he’s awfully sorry for insulting Stump Bayou.”
“Duurrgh,” Nick gurgled.
“And he also wants to apologize for indicating that there was something to be desired in the way I talk.”
Cheeto oinked his agreement with her assessment.
“Mmmmeerbb.” A white curd of spittle flew from Nick’s lips in the pig’s direction.
“Furthermore, he wouldn’t mind one bit if I went out and found another immortal to father my baby on account of he realizes that he’s a self-centered donkey taint with a soul uglier than a lard bucket full of armpits!”
This time, Nick didn’t bother trying to reply.
Moira stood, spanking ash from her jeans. “Well, I’m sure glad that’s settled. I’ll just let you rest there a spell since you’re looking so comfy.” Even in a strop, Moira’s hips traced swayed side to side in that effortless figure eight that so hypnotized him. Or would, if he could feel anything but the sickening ache in his offended testicles. The angry thwap thwap twap of her sandals kicked up little clouds as she made her way across the lawn to the back porch.
The pig, who had stayed behind, turned the pink pucker of its ass to him and hoofed dust into his face before trotting off after his mistress.
As he lay there, Nick’s own words returned to his mind like a mocking echo.
It is better to be feared than loved.
Never interrupt your enemy while he is making a mistake.
It is better to live one year as a lion than a hundred years as a sheep.
He was used to not getting credit for his finer thoughts. After all, it had been engineered that way. He dropped gems in the ears of those in power and went on his way unseen. Unmarked in history’s dizzying sweep.
Millenia of quotable shit, all attributable to him.
How was it, then, that the first time he attempted to express his feelings, he ended up with a knee in his crotch and ash in his mouth?
“Do I correctly surmise that your efforts didn’t proceed especially well?”
