//Closed//Lucky Charms

“Have you ever tried watching your tongue, my dear?” snapped the Puppeteer as he cocked his head to one side. His top hat, still resting on his lap, did not have to balance itself to remain precariously perched atop his tilted head for once.

When fingers, strong despite their delicate appearance, clutched his shirt, he looked up at her with a lofted eyebrow. “Careful, you’ll wrinkle it,” chided the Puppeteer as the cloth disintegrated in her grasp. Threads slithered between her fingers like living serpents and slipped away so that she had no grip by which to hold him, and then rewove themselves into the unblemished fabric.

“And if you’re so concerned about others detecting your costume, you should slow down on how much of that drink you imbibe. No lady I know could have drank that much with her senses and sensibility intact.” The Puppeteers lips stretched in a devilish grin, a crescent moon set in a malicious sky. As the Unseelie departed, the Puppeteer peddled his legs in the air over the table, a laugh tumbling from his lips to cut through the various pockets of gloom and mirth in the tavern, all the while maintain perfect balance with his chair on two legs—none would know of the secret strings, invisible in the dim lighting that looped around the chair to stabilize and suspend it.

His triumphant tantrum ended, the Puppeteer settled the heels of his shoes on the table top again, beside his glass. For a moment, he admired the amber ocean with its diminishing icebergs, before he reached out for it. Of course, the glass was just out of his reach. With a frustrated groan, the Puppeteer wriggled the fingers of his hand. The cuff of his dark sleeve unwound like a corkscrew and sprang forward to snare the glass. Twitching his fingers again, the threads snapped back, the glass landing in his hand with minimal sloshing. As a few droplets of whiskey dried on the floor, he took another gulp of the potent alcohol.

The Puppeteer savored his victory and his whiskey—while the triumph was far sweeter, the whiskey was longer-lasting. Before he had even swallowed the amber liquid, his giddiness for having, at least in his mind, bested Kalika had dwindled like a candle flame about to drowned in the puddle of its own wax. Turning his eyes to Kalika as she made her way through the crowd, delighting easily a dozen men with her passing presence, the Puppeteer felt his glee sputter and flicker out, leaving him with a nagging feeling of defeat. When she approached the bar to procure another bottle, the Puppeteer had to lean all the way back, neck craned over the back of his chair so that he could still view her—albeit upside-down.

“Who is she to not indulge me?” grumbled the demon, eyes narrowing with annoyance that wrinkled the corners. A frown settled on his face, though with his upturned head, it might have looked like some unusual smile. When the woman left the bar, he was certain she would resume her seat across from him but she only gave him a brief look before the melody of her heels clicked all the way to the door and out it. Of course, in following her progress, the Puppeteer had finally righted himself. Outraged by her departure, the Puppeteer jerked forward, front legs of his chair thudding onto the floor, like lovers tackling each other in their eagerness to embrace after an extended separation. In an instant, the man was on his feet, knocking back the last of the whiskey in the tumbler. He slammed the empty glass down, the shrunken ice cubes clinking together. Snatching up the bottle and stopper, he tightened his fingers around its neck as if he hoped to strangle it. In his other hand, he held his hat that he had caught as it tumbled from his lap when he stood. Lifting his hat, he set it atop his head, even more askew than usual, tilted forward to emphasize his anger by casting his face into deeper shadows.

The Puppeteer stormed out of the tavern, his shout preceding him as he followed her. “Woman! Did I say you could leave yet! Where are your manners?!” His voice was a wicked snarl, drenched with anger and alcohol. The Puppeteers blood hammered out a violent tune in his ears with the whiskey as its conductor.

Steel glimmered in the moonlight, twinkling like the stars themselves, when the Puppeteer saw a hand hurtling towards his face. In the time it took for her to reach out and tap his nose, he’d halfway drawn the blade concealed within his cane. The apparent scolding and nothing more caught him by surprise, halted his hands as one squeezed the silver bulb attached to the end of the straight blade and the other gripped the shaft that was its sheath. Beneath her brief touch, his nose wrinkled and twitched and the eyes on either side of it blinked shut and then open again. Just what is her game? he wondered as he slammed the weapon back into its hiding place, giving a twist to lock it away once more.

Confusion writhed on the demon’s face as he tried, in his drunken stupor to make heads or tails of the woman in front of him. When her laughter rang in his hears, a grin spread across his lips and he soon threw his head back to partake in the merriment with a loud guffaw. What did it matter? After a few laughs, the Puppeteer quieted and lowered his head to grin at Kalika. “And just what was it that you went to the tavern to find if not me?” he asked, arching an eyebrow so that it leapt into the shadows cast by the brim of his top hat. He brought both hands together before him to cage the silver bulb topping his cane and leaned heavily upon it, his gaze intent upon the woman as he awaited her answer.

“Fun?” he repeated, both eyebrows disappearing up into the shadows cast by the brim of his stovetop hat. Even in his drunken state, the Puppeteer found it as humorous as it was surprising that the big bad Unseelie was out for a spot of fun. A grin spread across his lips like the waxing of a crescent moon when he realized that her definition of fun most likely included someone else having a very, very unfun time. He’d hardly want to be her playmate, though victim was probably a better term, if that was the case. Still, the Puppeteer enjoyed the thrill of a challenge, and if nothing else, Kalika presented him with just that, especially with her mocking query.

“Oh, all manners of fun,” he rebuked with a cluck of his tongue. The Puppeteer lifted to his full height again with a fluid motion, though his movements resembled ale sloshing in a tankard more than the flows of a gentle stream. “In fact, I’d wager ones you couldn’t even imagine! You’re such a simple, carnal creature, after all!” he called out as she threatened to escape into the shadows of the forest’s deeper shade. Acting quickly, the Puppeteer raised his cane in one hand until it was horizontal in the air and began waving it about like a conductor guiding the tempo of his orchestra and with his other hand, he performed the actual trick. White threads shot between the tree trunks, weaving thick webs of his sturdy strands as beautiful as any spider’s masterpiece. He indicated one gap after another with his cane, and a barrier sprung up between each tree until she had nowhere to go, unless of course she could slip between the narrow webbing.

“Now, what say you, should we go back inside and enjoy each other’s company a little longer in the warmth beside the fire, M’lady?” he teased, and as he spoke, he tucked the arm holding his cane beneath his waist and bowed to her. Despite the steep angle his hat achieved, it never toppled from his head. Beneath its brim, his eyes twinkled like two mischievous sprites.

Sometimes, there was fun in courting death, especially for an immortal who had eternity to lose—so much more than a mortal’s lifetime. The thrill of danger that quickened a man’s pulse, made his heart drum a tune of pure adrenaline that sounded in his ears as clearly as the cannons of the 1812 Overture, was an excitement that reminded any man what it meant to be alive. Sometimes… when the risk wasn’t as dire as staring into the eyes of an angered Unseelie woman barely keeping her inner beast caged, it could be exhilarating to deprive the reaper of another soul. At the moment though, as the Puppeteer met Kalika’s glare with a blank-eyed gaze beneath eyebrows lofted in shock, he felt absolutely no excitement, instead only a budding fear that was rather sobering.

While alcohol had lent him added confidence, even bolstered his usual arrogance, it had only lasted when it seemed that he had the upper hand against his self-appointed Mistress. Now, it seemed she was no longer in the mood to play the stooge for his jests, and that she was quite irritated by his previous pranks. The intensity of her gaze, burning with a fury in her dark eyes, quickly sobered the Puppeteer enough to realize it was no longer the time to detain her, no longer the time for games. With a quick flick of his wrist, he banished the silken cobwebs of his ivory threads spanning the trunks of the trees in her path. Even as they dissolved into the darkness, he bowed and took his leave in an eruption of black thread that swirled around his frame. When the cloud of unraveled cloth dissipated, The Puppeteer was gone.
[Exit]