Hail to the Queen (Witch For Hire 2)

“Notice she sounds surprised,” Ruby remarks.

“They have carnival games over this way. Maybe they’re mingling with the crowd.”

“Or working the games,” Ruby says. “If you were a psycho killer, this place has to be the perfect gig.” Ruby shrugs.

Even the games are themed. The workers are dressed to frighten. Pale-faced, stereotypical, widow-peaked vampires with fangs and blood drops in the corner of their mouth heckle the crowd into playing ring toss. Dead-eyed dolls, zombies, and ghouls entertain with ghoulish gimmicks and showmanship. It’s a mixture of vaudeville and modernism.

I pause in front of the stacked milk bottles when my bracelet turns icy cold.

“All right, this is the dead zone. My wrist feels like it’s going to get frostbite.” I shake my hand to get the blood flowing and change my direction.

“We know it works then at least.”

“We found them. They’re working in the Fun House.”

“How could he tell if they’re in a uniform?” Ruby asks.

“Sacha’s bracelet must be blazing.”

“They’re smart, hiding in public like this. Even if they’re caught, they won’t be easy to capture,” Marcellus says.

“I’m going to pretend you aren’t impressed by the madmen we’re here to capture.”

“I bet they’re completely unaware that Harold is still alive, and they’ve been ratted out,” I muse.

“You’re right. I’m giving the humans too much credit.”

I’ve grown used to their flippancy. I often wonder if humans are truly like cattle to him. With his abrasive attitude and grim humor, Marcellus is often hard to read. I take four steps to their two. If it wasn’t for my training, I’d be winded by now. We join the fast-moving line. Groups of three and four are herded into the building. The small doll-like woman in a dingy red polka dot dress rises from her perch on a raised platform and silently stalks every group as they enter. Her movements are mechanical and awkward.

Larkin, Cristobal, and Sacha join us. Her glossy blank stare hits me in the gut.

“Sach, are you okay?”

She raises her head. Her lower lip trembles. “I’m not sure I ever will be again.”

“What the hell happened in there?”

She shakes her head.

“Cristobal?”

“You have to see for yourself, reina. There are things that are beyond, even for me.”

I study the three of them. They’ve all been rattled. My apprehension rises. We move forward, and I toy with my silver bracelet, running my fingers over the smooth textured surface hand hammered and spelled. The doll woman waves us forward. We step inside, and a high-pitched scream assaults my ears. I’ve never heard such realistic depiction of torture outside of a movie. A clown rushes forward, rattling the bars on the makeshift jail cell to our left. We continue down the hallway full of mirrors. Each one distorts our shapes, squashing our bodies, twisting our limbs, and enlarging our heads. We step onto clear tiles. The plastic gives, going squishy as it fills with blood red liquid.

The haunting screams continue to grow louder as we move forward. The black light section plunges us all into darkness. Neon green triangles and squares are mingled with orange ovals and pink circles. A black and white circle swirls in the background.

A black shadow jumps forward. I clench my fist to keep from reacting. We clear the hallway, and the path turns to the left. Scenes play out in a viewing area. A mad scientist pulls the lever on a machine. Sparks fly. Frankenstein twitches on the operating table. My bracelet burns. We move to the next scene. A puddle of blood darkens the white floor, floods the metal table and the doctors in surgical scrubs and masks. The body strapped down jerks as the scalpel slices into flesh and they slowly peel it back. Oh my God! This is real!

Yes, it is. Steady, reina. We don’t want to alert them.

My body shakes. These people are being entertained by the torture and killing of a human being. Hoarse from screaming, and shifting into shock, the man on the table goes silent. Eyes wide, chest heaving, and mouth wide. His shallow pants are worse than the scream. That at least had fight behind it. This is surrender and acceptance. It’s the silent prelude to the end. The surgical masks obscuring their faces does nothing to conceal the maniacal joy shining in their eyes. The line continues, and we move to the next station. Unseeing, I can’t concentrate on anything but holding myself together.

“We can’t let them get away with this.”

“We won’t,” Cristobal says.

“How can we leave them here like this?”