I said a word appropriate to the situation, and which used to be considered “unprintable.” Standards may be slipping: today it’s merely a punctuation mark, but I said it with feeling and emphasis, and given the demons of lust outside the door, unintentional irony.

Amateur astronomers do not have my problems.

Let me explain that. See, first of all, there’s the term “amateur astronomer,” which is disingenuous to start. The person who barely sets up his telescope is an amateur astronomer, as is the person who spends nights ticking off extended math equations of degrees and counts that only entertain themselves making sure some ancient scientist was correct in their values, nevermind that they’re doing much of the same work as “professionals.” While the nomenclature may be broken down in real astronomer circles, I don’t own a telescope. I know about the Queen of Air and Darkness, after all, and the voids between the stars give me the heebie-jeebies.

I felt like an amateur astronomer being told that because I knew about other galaxies, I was responsible for this one, nevermind that I barely know how to focus my (as noted – nonexistent) telescope.

With great power and all that, yeah. But I have itsy-bitsy power and, alas, no enormous cosmic living space to turn the quote around, except on a philosophical level. After all, I could have been bound to a nut’s shell, were it not for my nightmares. It’s only luck that we met Nellie in such a humanocentric place – she could have been simultaneously existing in a realm of fire or somesuch and that would have really burnt my hide, so, to, um, speak. Chapped? Hides are chapped. Whiskers are burnt? Oh, nevermind.

I digress.

So, the Shadow King wanted to start up a supernova, did he? And here I’d been trying to change my orbit to meet this new girl only to find out what I thought was a moon was actually a gas giant.

Alright, E, drop the metaphors and back up slowly and no one gets hurt.

The Shadow King grinned at the unintentional portion and then turned to face Sylvie.

If I’d been a martial artist or had a gun or fire blasts or something, it would have been a great time to try to get the drop on the Lord of (wheel)Barrows or whatever titles he claimed. Alas, I had me, my puny fists, my telephone, and…

…hmmm.

“I’m sorry, E,” Sylvia said.

“I thought it was noteworthy that you brought two -cubi over, using only the lusts of a few college coeds and some seniors,” I said.

“You might be surprised,” she smiled sadly.

“So, who are you betraying?” I asked, just shrugging.

“I was going to go on a date with you,” she said, a little defensively.

“She didn’t deal with me,” the Shadow King jumped in, as if also defending himself. Because, you know, I’m so scary and all.

She smiled at him. It was a cold smile, one older than she could possibly be. “You are not the only Power involved. E, do you remember a girl named Binah?”

I blinked. “Um, yeah.”

“Did you know she was a witch?” she turned that same smile to me, and I shivered. Literally. It was maybe 9 at night, and it’d been hot out during the day, but I had the whole, “caught naked in cold water,” feeling.

“Binah?” I repeated, as if this was someone else using the same name. “Maybe I didn’t know her,” I suggested.

“Funny,” Sylvia said. “I wonder if Magda ever guessed whose spell she unraveled the night she met you.” She started taking steps closer to the Shadow King and I, and I noticed how both of us instinctively moved a little more away.

My mind raced. I knew the name referred to something kabbalistic, but it’s a perfectly good girl’s name. Rationality, but also secrets. Comprehension to come with interpretation, which I found amusing at the time since there was only one (okay, two things) I wanted to interpret with her, if you know what I mean. She liked loud music, was part of the honors program, wore great pithy t-shirts, usually in black.

I was doomed. Women called me “cute,” but I could only date witches, presuming the whole feminine portion of the race weren’t practitioners. I added it to my mental character sheet.

“You’re not even twenty-five,” I protested.

“Are you sure?” she flashed that smile again at me.

“Sylvie, you’re not Sylvie,” I said. I could hear it, then, that little touch of metal-touching-metal, a little “ding” like a triangle, the call of a very subtle door: a possession.

“But who?” the Shadow King breathed out, fascinated like a bird was fascinated with a snake, at least in the story of my favorite mongoose.

“Try me,” she said. It was the same voice that greeted us the night of the -cubi. That husky whisper, golden like the sun over hayfields, the same voice as the -cubi messenger that only teased us.

I repeated the word I used earlier, but only in my head.

“Nuh-uh,” I said, shaking my head. “Doesn’t work that way.” I put my hand in my pocket, reaching for a packet of salt. I opened it one-handed (that’s a trick that takes practice and is a skill worth learning) and tossed it out between us.

“Salt,” the Shadow King smiled. “No batteries?” he asked me.

“That’s always been a stupid joke,” I muttered.

“Salt,” the thing that was Sylvie muttered. “Salt won’t stop me. Salt won’t bind me.”

But it does give her pause, which is all I need. Luckily, the Shadow King is on the same “wavelength” as I am. While she is sniffing at the salt, he drops her. It looks painful as she falls to the ground, but I sense that it is just her body that is felled by his Word, and not the being inside her that opened the door.

Closing doors is my specialty, but this one gives me pause.