Chapter 13 : Merde (Patreon)

Esmerelda fumed. Her experiment was a disaster. She glanced down at the croissant, and took an angry bite.

The dentures in her mouth didn't fit quite right and she bit the inside of her cheek. She yelled in fury, frustration and pain, and threw the croissant into the fireplace, along with the dish, along with the coffee mug.

She had been so close!

Her exercises were to control and manipulate matter through her perception. She'd been using her Eye quite a lot to complete these exercises, and extended use always gave her a headache. She rubbed her head, feeling the stickiness of her bouffant. She stuck her hand into her hair, and deliberately messed it up.

"Grrrrrr! Merde!"

It would serve Thomas right to hear how angry and distressed she was. He had been told, MULTIPLE TIMES to knock first. He couldn't follow that ONE SIMPLE INSTRUCTION!

She went to her mirror on the wall, then snapped her fingers a few times, and found a different look that would be better for experimentation. It was a bit more of a subdued hairdo, and a less heavy dress, but the heels were killer.

She sighed, looking at her elderly image. Opening her mouth, she pushed the dentures a bit to the side, and reseated them. It was bad enough she'd been transformed into this hideous old woman, but she had to suffer with the geas and the dresses and this crazy hair!

And she'd look like this for a very very long time to come, also. Agatha was already over a hundred years old and considered young for a witch. The former Esmerelda had lived almost a thousand years before a wizard took her down.

A thousand years with bouffants, eyelashes, and corset dresses felt like too much.

Too much.

She calmed herself. Agatha had told her that tempers had no place in the Studio Magique. She smiled at the french term for Magic Studio. French was such a beautiful language. She considered her language shift into French to be one of the few benefits to her new position.

Well, that and Le Magique, of course. In french, she wasn't a witch, she was a sorcière. So pretty.

She sighed looking at her small, elderly body. She wished she could do something about her appearance, but apparently it was 'part of the deal' of being in the Coven. Some agreement ages before that women who practice magic in a cohesive group would have an unfair advantage if they used sorcery to alter their physical body. They were permitted to use illusions, but only for a limited time.

So many Laws. So little time.

She flipped open her grimoire to read over the incantation and formula again.

She began reassembling the objects she needed for the incantation. First she brought out a large Amethyst and set it next to a chalice. Then she set her Athame, her ceremonial knife at the top of the circle. She lit four black candles and set it at each cardinal direction to call the essences of earth wind fire and water. She lit a stick of insense, and held it aloft, drinking in the fragrance and allowing her mind to settle.

She placed the amethyst on the altar, and anointed it with several essential oils in order to cleanse the amethyst from any outside majiques. She took a long sip from the glass of wine, perhaps a bit more than was actually required for the ritual, then poured a bit over the amethyst to inspire the transmutation. Finally she added the last bit of salt to the circle, and closed her eyes as she imbued it with her will.

She held her wand and the Athame in each hand, closing her eyes, and chanting the incantation. It was in old English, based on a runic language, and she intuitively knew what the words meant, and how to say them.

"On ðæm ealdgesegenne bismerunge, læt ðisne ameþyst, se weaxþ in eorþan fýrbendum and on heofonlicum lēohte baðode, nu ungedón and eft gegearwod weorðan þurh minne willan. Writ on ðisne gimstān þa searu of hweorfcyme, þa wíndlas Dīonȳsos wíngeardes, þæt bindað ðæs stānes heorte tō ðæs wíngeardes blōde. Læt ðæt purpuran hiw, deop swa ðæt hwyrftlic rodor, nā būton bodung sīe ðære andweardnesse, of fæstum stāne tō flēotendum wynsumnesse."

(Translated text: In the aged censure, let this amethyst, which grows within earth's fiery bonds and is bathed in heavenly light, now be undone and made anew through my will. Write upon this gem the intricate carvings of change, the windings of Dionysus’ vineyard, which bind the stone’s heart to the vineyard’s blood. Let the purple appearance, deep as the vaulted heavens, be but an announcement of the presence, from firm stone to flowing delight.)

She inhaled, and waited, eyes closed.

The magic gathered inside her, flowing through her, and out of the wand, and directed by the athame. She pointed her athame as the amethyst, feeling intuitively what needed to be done.

Opening her Eye, she felt the glimmer of magic pour through her, through the wand, and focused by the althame. She saw the Magigue as a series of sparkling energy, the same color of her aura, a deep orange, umber.

The magic flowed around the athame, and into the amethyst. This was where Thomas had broken her concentration earlier, and the amethyst pulverized into powder and not wine.

Holding the taste in her mouth, she forced her will along the magic, coaxing the Amethyst into a new configuration, a new form. Pulling from the candles at the four corners of the circle, the magic sparkled along the path of salt, and her will began to have an effect on the amethyst. She driected the flow of the wine into the chalice, watching as the purple crystal dissolved and changed mediums.

She didn't need much, just a cupful would do, at least for now. The droplets moved from the amethyst and into the chalice. She felt a little squick in her belly that let her know it was working!

After holding her hands for so long, they were beginning to shake. So she gave thanks to the elements, and allowed her arms to drop to her side.

A cup of amethyst wine shimmered in the chalice on the table. It had worked!

She needed to tell Thomas.

She sniffed the wine. It was really wine! Then went up the stairs.

She walked out to the shed, expecting him to be working on his chess which she found ridiculous, but at least he was out of her hair. But he wasn't inside.

She walked back in. "Thomas?" she said.

No one responded. Where was he?

She heard something shift upstairs. She climbed up, slowly. Using magique always exhausted her, and made her frisky.

He was sitting on the bed, staring into the mirror. A towel wrapped around his lower half. His eyes were wide and he didn't even hear her come in.

"Thomas?" she said, with emphasis on the last syllable. Since becoming Esmerelda, she hadn't been able to call him 'Tommy.'

He blinked and looked at her. For a moment, she was a bit startled. In that glance wasn't Thomas, not the man she loved, the man she'd created a life with. In that moment, was something else something hurtful, spiteful, hateful.

"Mon cher, you are okay?"

He blinked a moment, and then shook his head. "Esmerelda?"

"In zee flesh!" she held up her chalice. "I 'ave made zee wine, from zee Amethyzt!"

"What?"

"Zis wine!" she gave him the chalice. "It waz made from Amethyzt cryztal!"

Thomas shrugged, then drank the cup of wine.

"Mon dieu!" She gasped, "What 'ave you done?"

He rolled it around in his mouth a bit, then swallowed. "You said it was wine. So I drank it."

"But I 'ave no idea what might 'appen to you? You ztupid man!"

"Stupid, huh." He got up and the towel dropped from around his middle.

"Yez! Estupid! Idio! Cretin!"

Thomas took her in his arms, and she squealed. "You beast!"

He kissed her wrinkled neck softly, sending shivers up her spine. Then he lifted her in his arms, and carried her to the bed.

"You are a beazzt! Eek!" she squealed, laughing.

He set her down in front of the bed, then lifted her skirts, putting his hand in her sticky hairdo, and bending her over the bed.

"Mon dieu!" she said. "Thomas, we've never—"

He cut out her talking by pulling down her pantyhose.

It excited her. She loved when he took control, took charge. He rarely liked to take her from behind, but they had done it a few times, and she loved every minute of it.

He forced her head down, then pressed into her, using her hairdo as leverage.

She squealed. This was very abrupt, but she found it hot, and she had been so frisky.

He thrust into her, and she exclaimed in french, completely losing the english translator as her earrings fell to the mattress.

She backed up against him, again and again and again. She felt him thrusting, and she thrust back against him, moaning in time with him, speaking words of love in french.

"Mmm, my little french harlot," he said.

She didn't understand his words, but could feel their intent.

"Ouii, ohhhh, ouii!"

They both found climax together, panting and moaning.

And behind them the mirror glowed deep red.