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Opening my mouth to give her a silent rash of shit, I caught sight of something over Ginger's shoulder that swiped the words from my mouth and the breath from my lungs. Shining in the darkness, just under a long, dripping icicle as long as I was tall, I could just barely make out a long straight line bisected by one that was curved before I unrolled, flipped over, got up on my knees, and crawled towards the far wall.
Creeping closer, I slipped past Ginger, ignored her whisper-shouted warnings, and slid my hips to the right to avoid being kicked by little gingerbread feet. I thought I'd escaped her batshit crazy clutches when just like that, she grabbed hold of the hem of my plaid flannel nightshirt and dug her heels in, attempting to stop my forward motion. Pulling the lump of overbaked dough along for the ride, I threw my chin out as far as it would go and squinted until I felt the skin around my eyes pull tight – and the icing crack.
I knew if my mother had been anywhere around, she would've taken the opportunity to tell me that I was creating new wrinkles as she recommended a cream Dr. Bombay had concocted or the latest anti-aging Spell she and one of my Aunties had conjured. Like any of that crap worked. Genetics were all that mattered when it came to Witches of a certain age – and let me assure you – I was a proud, card-carrying member of that group.
The closer I got, the more of the marking I could make out. At the end of each bisecting line were semi-circles facing outward with scratches that reminded me of the hashtags I overheard the younger Witches talking about while playing on their phones.
Searching my memory banks, I shuffled through centuries of amassed information. I was getting close. I could feel it. I was nearly there. The pieces were falling into place. It was just out of my reach. All I had to do was….”
“What the hell are you lookin’ at?”Ginger’s grating growl shot through my mind like nails on a chalkboard and almost made me squeal in surprise.
With my heart pounding like the All Witch Marching Band drumline, I slapped my chest with such force that the breath flew from my lungs, and my knees came to a screeching halt. Snapping my head to the side, I looked over my shoulder, glared at the crazy cookie woman, and whisper-growled through gritted teeth, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Nothing is wrong with me," she snarled in return. "You're the one creeping in the dark like Frankenstein right after the shock."
"First of all, Frankie never crawls. He has bad knees. And second of all, will you puhlease…?" I stopped, huffed out a sharp breath, shook my head, and snapped, "Just shut up, or I'll toss you around again."
“Why I never.”
“Yes, you did, you do, and you will again. So, just zip your lips and let me see what this is.”
Much to my surprise, and for the first time in all the years we'd been stuck together, Ginger actually shut her mouth. If we'd been anywhere else than stuck in some dark, dank hole freezing our asses off, I would've Magicked up a bottle of champagne, popped the cork, and made a toast. Heck, I would've even shared it with her.
Sadly, we were all of the above,andmy Magic was on lockdown so tight it reminded me of the Virgin Queen's chastity belt. So, I did the only thing I could: I got to my feet, straightened my spine, put my eyes forward, and started back across the room.
Once again, I saw the straight line bisected by a curved one, the semi-circles facing outward on all the ends, and the hash marks on the inside. I should've known what that symbol was. I had seen it before. I knew it. I may not have had a memory like a steel trap, but I rarely forgot glyphs because those little suckers had a nasty way of popping up and biting a girl in the ass at the worst possible time.
Taking another look, I decided it wasn't Celtic. Nope. No way. I knew all of those, like the smile lines on my own face.
They weren't Norse. At least, I didn't think they were. Although they were close to those I'd learned all those centuries ago. Also, all the Nordic runes were separated by Clan, Tribe, and other collections of people, so it was almost impossible to know if I knew them all.
Reaching the far wall, I placed the tips of the fingers of my right hand in the grooves that had been forced into the rock. The tiniest sizzle of old Magic bit at my skin, placing the glyph's meaning into my mind.
“Ginfaxi,” I breathed the word flashing in my brain like the neon light atop the Wild Witch Winifred’s All Night Bar and Grill.
"Gin and farts," Ginger wheezed. "Yes, I know you fart when you drink gin, but what does that have to do with our current state of affairs?"
“She didn’t say Gin and farts, Ginger Bridgette McCrocker,” that blasted voice wafted from the darkness, reminding me that we were not alone.
Spinning on the toes of my stocking feet, I gasped, “Ginfaxi! For the protection and fight against adversarial Magic! That’s what it is! I got it! I got it!”
Stepping forward, I kept going, "And you're Gryla! Aren't you? The Icelandic Christmas Witch who pissed off an Ogress. That's you, isn't it? It's you! I know it's you. You look like a Mountain Troll with long, matted orange hair, a black beard, and blue eyes all over the back of your head. You have a ten-foot tail covered in scales with a horned tip, and you carry a… a… a… Holy Heavenly Goddess in a halo and a mistletoe bra," I ended in a gasp with my mouth hanging open while Ginger climbed my leg.
Stepping out of the shadows, the Icelandic Christmas Witch of Legend was nothing short of jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Everything I’d ever been told or read about her looks was wrong – wrong with a capital W-R-O-N-G.
Seven feet tall if she was an inch, her long, orange hair fell in soft, billowy waves in front of and behind her shoulders, accentuating her high cheekbones and perfectly pert nose. Bright blue eyes - only two of them - contrasted her glowing green skin as if Pablo Picasso had painted her with his own brush. Her icy cyan lips were curled in a smirk that showed off the sharp tips of her perfectly white pointed teeth. She was beautiful in a horrifically scary way that made me doubt a whole host of other stories I’d been told over the years.
No sooner had the thought crossed my mind than Ginger poked her head out from under my nightshirt and fired off, "Holy shit, Gryla, you're just this side of gorgeous. You're not a horrible beast at all. I mean, those teeth are scary as hell, but as long as you're not pointing 'em at me, I'm good. But I gotta ask, what about making stew out of the bad little children? Is that true? Is that what the teeth are for? Do you really eat….?"
“GINGER!” I shrieked.
Reaching down, I grabbed the gingerbread idiot by the hand, swung her up into my other hand, and slapped the one that had just become free over her mouth. Taking a step backward, I smiled as brightly as possible while shaking in my stocking feet and praying the Christmas Witch of Legend didn't eat me like she'd eaten her first husband.
“I’m so sorry, Gryla. Please excuse….”
“No worries,” she sighed, holding up a hand and waving off my apology. “I knew Ginger when she was a young Gingerbread Woman and her mother before her. Lack of tact runs in the family.”
"No shit?" The words were out of my mouth long before my brain engaged. "And here I thought Ginger was just being a pain in the ass to make my life more difficult."
