Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
For the love of—” Lou sighed and pinched his brow. “Both of you! Stop fucking screaming.”
“Sorry!” Seymour hissed. “Fuckin’ some of us aren’t used to fucked-up talkin’ heads!”
Sariel rubbed Seymour’s shoulder soothingly.
“Technically, I’m a talkin’ skull,” the skull whispered loudly, his accent thick.
Scottish? Irish? Something-ish.
“What is all the fussing about?” Myrna asked as she walked in, her forehead wrinkled. She gasped when she looked in the closet. “Oh! A talking skull!”
The skull blinked.
Well, the glow of his eyes flickered, so that it appeared to be blinking anyway.
“Of course I’m a talking skull,” the skull said. “Do we have to keep repeatin’ ourselves?”
“It should be very obvious,” Sariel whispered. “There is no hair.”
“A talking skull who can see Myrna…” Lou made a face. “Sure. Why the fuck not?”
“How very interesting!” Myrna peered over at the skull. “Magicians once employed talking skulls in their acts who were said to have the ability to see all! Those of course were fakes, puppetry with strings and the like. This fellow is the genuine article! Oh, what a delight!”
Seymour grimaced. “And what was he doin’ locked up in my dad’s closet?”
“Hey! You can ask me yourself!” The skull rolled his eyes.
“Okay. Fine.” Seymour huffed. “What are you doing in my dad’s closet, Mr. Skull?”
“King.”
“Huh?”
“Me name’s King.”
“Okay, King. What are you doin’ in there?”
King blinked. “Sure, I haven’t the faintest idea.”
Seymour sighed.
Sariel gave Seymour’s shoulder a firmer rub.
Day hopped down, padding over to sniff curiously at King.
King eyed her suspiciously. “I haven’t got any fish.”
“That is all right!” Day smiled. “I’m not hungry right now anyway.”
God help them all if she was.
“Ah, so the cat’s mute.” King sighed. “It’s hard bein’ a superior magical creature.”
“She can talk,” Seymour corrected, “but only a few people can understand her.”
“Right. So, I am still superior, like.”
Day narrowed her eyes and growled. “I am going to eat him.”
King blinked worriedly. “Uh, what did she say now?”
“Oh, not much.” Seymour smirked. “She likes your crown.”
“I’m Myrna! Hello there!” Myrna said with a cheerful smile. “That sweet little lady is Day, this nice fellow here is Seymour, that’s Sariel beside him, and the man with the grumpy face is Louis Morénas-Mostro.”
“I’m not grumpy.” Lou kneeled in front of the closet, rummaging through a few pieces of paper on the floor. One of them was missing its lower half, and he scowled as he gave it a closer examination.
“You definitely look grumpy,” King noted.
Seymour smirked. “I think he just kinda looks like that.” He glanced between Sariel and Myrna. “So, uh, can anybody else here tell me why my dad had a talkin’ skull?”
“They were renowned throughout Celtic legend for being great prophets and possessing fantastic magical powers,” Myrna replied eagerly.
“The seat of the soul was believed to be inside the skull, so sometimes they’d lob off a person’s head after they died and keep it.
The talking variety like our new friend here is rare indeed, and any witch or wizard would consider themselves very lucky to have one! ”
“True that.” King seemed to grin. “I am pretty brilliant, as they go.”
“Were you truly royalty?” Myrna asked. “Like Conaire Mór, the famous Irish king whose head recited poetry and the like?”
“Afraid not, missus. The crown upon my head was stuck there by that fuckin’ thick magician, Pink Charlie. It kept fallin’ off during the act, so this was his solution.”
“Oh! So, you did work with a magician?”
“I was the star! The pride of Dublin!” King declared. “He should’ve been workin’ for me! Sold out every night, glowin’ reviews, fresh polish for me bones weekly! That is, until Charlie decided to expand our act. Fuckin’ eejit.”
“Expand the act?” Seymour frowned. “What happened?”
“He wanted a dancing bear to wheel me on stage in a cart.”
“That sounds kinda nice—”
“Sure, the bear ate him.”
“Never mind.”
Day perked up immediately. “I like the bear.”
“Myrna.” Lou waved her over. “Take a look at these.”
Myrna peered curiously over the papers. “Music sheets? Hmm, how strange. They’re definitely magical, but I’m not sure—”
“Those have been written in the Wine of Silvertongue, made from Kvasir himself!” King declared.
“Are you sure?” Lou demanded.
“Of what?”
“If these were written in the Wine of Silvertongue."
“What’s that?”
Lou glared, and for a split second Seymour thought he was going to wolf out. “Acrobat, spring forth.”
Seymour blinked. “What does that—”
Sariel grabbed Seymour, his wings out and wrapped around him protectively as a big, zooming blob appeared out of nowhere.
It pinged around the room like a rubber bouncy ball on speed, taking out a set of curtains and smacking into the closet door with enough force to slam it back against the wall.
It finally came to a screeching stop on top of the same door, revealing itself to be a woman in a masked black-and-white jester’s costume.
She was small and thin, her face painted stark white and lips black, and her entire frame vibrated, no doubt ready to go zooming off again at any second.
“You know what. Fuck it. Sure. Yes.” Seymour exhaled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Fuckin’ bouncing clowns.”
“Hi there, ho there, whoa there!” The woman gazed curiously at Seymour with big, dark eyes. “We have new members of the audience, oh, yes, yes, we do!”
Myrna smiled and cupped her hand beside her mouth, whispering to Seymour, “This is the Acrobat!”
Seymour gave an awkward wave from behind Sariel’s wings. “Uh… Yo.”
“Yo, yo, yo, hello there!” The Acrobat grinned and waved back frantically.
“I’m wavin’ with me heart.” King’s eyes flickered. “Cos I haven’t got any hands.”
Seymour nodded. “We know, King.”
“Or arms.”
“Got it.”
“Actually, I don’t have a heart, either—”
“Acrobat,” Lou said firmly. “I need you to please identify this ink.” He offered the stack of music sheets up to her.
The Acrobat squealed and her arms stretched out like Mr. Fantastic’s as she snatched the sheets away. Her mouth popped open with the same bizarre rubbery quality, and Seymour could not help but be reminded of Day’s very large mouth.
God in Heaven, he hoped this wasn’t going to involve any crunching.
The Acrobat promptly shoved the stack of music sheets into her mouth and swallowed, smacking her lips. Her neck bulged out, and each individual edge of the papers was visible as they traveled down into her stomach. She hummed thoughtfully and then grinned. “Drumroll, please!”
Seymour frowned. “What?”
The Acrobat must have done the drumroll in her head because she suddenly liquified, gushing across the floor in a sudden wave. It was like watching a water balloon get popped with a needle. The music sheets were left behind, stuck to the door in a layer of thick slime.
Day hissed and bolted back to Seymour, climbing him like a tree to take refuge up on his shoulder.
“Ow, ow, okay! Easy!” Seymour cradled her close. “I got you.”
The Acrobat reformed in seconds, bouncing from one foot to the other as she rubbed her stomach. “Mmm, yummy, yummy! Wine of Silvertongue in my tummy!”
“So, the skull was right,” Lou mused.
“Of course I was,” King huffed haughtily. “I’m always right. Never wrong, says I!” He paused. “Wait, what was I right about again?”
“It’s the wine stuff you said it was.” Seymour raised his hand. “Okay, quick question for the rest of the class. Who is this Kava-seer guy again?”
“He was a being born from the spittle of the Aesir and Vanir whose very blood mixed with honey created the Mead of Poetry,” Lou drawled in reply. “It was a magical brew that would grant whoever drank it great wisdom and poetry skills.”
“A guy… made outta spit? Like, literally out of drool?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Myrna gushed, clearly excited to join the conversation again.
“While the Mead of Poetry may have been the cat’s pajamas back in the day, there was a second potion.
The Wine of Silvertongue was crafted from a slice of Kvasir’s tongue fermented in an especially rare and potent alcohol.
See, the dwarves who murdered him drained his blood, but his body was buried—”
Seymour scoffed. “He was fucking murdered?”
Myrna wagged her finger. “It is very rude to interrupt!”
“Okay, okay.” Seymour held up his hands. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Ahem. Anyway! So, after he was buried—”
“Myrna,” Lou urged. “How about you just tell him what it does?”
“Oh! Quite right.” Myrna grinned sheepishly.
“The Wine of Silvertongue would imbue whoever drank it with the power of persuasion. They could tell you to do something, and you would have no choice but to obey!” She pointed to the music sheets.
“Someone has taken it, boiled it down somehow, and turned it into ink to write these!”
Seymour eyed the Acrobat, who was busying herself tying her arms into knots. “Why isn’t squishy lady over there barking orders at us then?”
“She’s not really the barking orders type. Also, she’s dead.” Myrna shrugged. “It may only affect the living. Not to mention this ink was used to write music! It hasn’t been played, and that may be required for the magic to have the intended effect.”
“So, we got a bunch of musical stuff that can make somebody do something if it’s played?”
“Yes!” Myrna frowned. “But I’m not sure what.”
“Why not?”
“I can read the music, but I don’t know the language of the lyrics.” Myrna looked at King. “Do you?”
“Ah, giz a look!” King nodded. “Bring ’em over to me.”
Myrna peeled one of the sheets from the door to present it to King.
“Ah, yes. Thanks. That’s grand.” King squinted his flaming orbs. “Yes… I see.”
“Well?” Lou prompted.
“Yes, it’s all very clear now.”
“What?”
“I can’t read.”
Lou slammed the closet door shut.
“Superior, my ass,” Day mumbled.
“Day!” Seymour gasped.
“What? He started it!”
Lou rubbed his forehead, scowling as his shoulders bulged. “Myrna?”