– By the Mothers, what happened to you, my child! exclaimed Mab, the Winter Queen.
Leah had been in such a rush to see her that Mab had been forced to use one of the antechambers of her bedrooms, her flowing ebon hair tied in the easy updo called Lover’s Haste. Before her knelt Leah, her favourite godchild, tears making quite the mess of her exquisite makeup.
– I fear one the mortals may have slipped poison into my drink, Godmother. I believe the Mortals call it Fie of the Rooh. He must have dragged me to his abode, for that is where I came to, tied to a fancy leather chair. He was busily hacking off my hair as I came to.
– My dear Leah, what Have I told you about drinking at the tables of the Mortals?
– And, Godmother, he used cold iron scissors! The pain of that iron is what woke me up from the drugged stupor.
Mab inhaled sharply.
– I have no idea how he knew, but the pain is quite exquisite; I can still feel the burn of that iron everywhere it touched my skin.
Mab rose from her lounge chair and walked the few steps to the kneeling child, and used the long, black nail on her index finger to lift the kneeling child’s face so she could see her. The welts on Lea’s skin, all along the line where her assailant had touched her forehead to cut the bangs, where the hairline touched her pointy ears, and, especially, all over the cropped nape, looked horrible.
– And as he used cold iron, none of my magic will make it grow, none of the burns can heal; not until such time as punishment has been meted out. I am stuck with this horrid short bob!
Mab inspected the hacked off remains of what had been her godchild’s crowning glory. The long arrow straight ebon hair which the morning before easily reached her thighs had been brutally shorn into a chin length bob, angled sharply up in the back, exposing a nape cut so short what should be ice white skin could be seen clearly through the stubble. Where the hairs had been cut, each hair ended in a little crisped and burnt stub, and the skin underneath was welted and puffy, like it had been burnt with fire.
– He seems to have done this sort of thing before, my child?
– He did have a certain air of confidence about him, like he’d done this many times before, Godmother.
– Well then.
– Also, he didn’t even have the courtesy to properly rape me! – it seems he went through all of that trouble only to harvest my long dark hair!
– I think we shall have to pay this so called hairdresser a visit, don’t you, my child?
– Yes Godmother. And Godmother?
– Yes my child?
– Thank you.
That night, a coal black 1933 Duesenberg rolled up in front of a walled garden in the suburbs of Chicago.
Out stepped two elegant women, both wearing exquisite deep black gowns, one with her hair flowing freely all the way down her back, the tips swinging enticingly around her derrière, the other wearing a harsh short bob.
They approached the gates in a slow saunter, both clearly enjoying the chill of the evening.
As they turned towards the gates, the uniformed guard posted there inhaled sharply, finding himself unexpectedly confronted by the two most beautiful women he had ever seen.
He managed to stammer:
– Ca-can I help you ladies? I-I mean, m-my master is not expecting visitors tonight, but let me just ca.. Quaack?
Mab blowed a few icy sparks off the tip of her wand, as the guard, now in the form of a bright green frog, confused and frightened, leapt from the pile of his now useless clothes, into a rose bush nearby, leaving his gun and keys behind.
– You’re right, my dear, I Could have waited for him to announce us. But I think, tonight, I prefer the element of surprise, Mab said, as she used the tip of the wand to pick up the keys.
Leah just snickered, then winced as the grimace pulled at her wounds, making the pain flare up again.
Mab presented the guard’s keys to Leah at the end of the wand, and soon the pair were sauntering along the garden path, towards the villa.
– So, Donovan. You’re telling me that the guards apparently left their stations at midnight – I’m sorry, stations, keys, weapons and clothes?
– Yes mr. Lennox. Look, I can’t explain it either, but please, sir. look back here.
Donovan led the senior detective along the path to a back entrance down a flight of stairs. Outside, one of the junior detectives was staring into a rapidly cooling paper mug of coffee, his hands trembling, and not from the unexpected frost that had hit the neighborhood on this morning in August.
– Morning, Henderson. That bad, eh?
– Oh, this is a good one Sir, Henderson replied, his voice small.
Down the stairs, Lennox was expecting some kind of sex dungeon. What he found was something entirely different.
The small room was dominated by a large barbers chair. The walls were covered in mirrors. On pegs hung on the walls were long braids and ponytails, at least a couple hundred of them, blonde, brown, black, red, each carefully labelled with a little golden pin with a name and date on it.
The man of the house sat in the barbers chair, in the biggest pile of hair Lennox had ever seen. His face was fixed in a horrible mask, contorted to the point that it was just barely recognizable as human. The hair and beard on his head were impossibly long, spilling over the chair, down to the floor, and covered the tiled floor from wall to wall. The victims gaze was fixed on his hands; hands which had been entirely flayed of skin, skeleted. Elegantly arranged on top of those skeleted hands lay a rusty old pair of scissors.
As Lennox and Donovan were both taking in the scene, the man in the chair, who they had all assumed was dead, suddenly took in a deep breath and let it out in an inhuman scream, full of terror and pain.
This is my second story for this page; I hope you enjoy it.
Constructive criticism welcome; please be mindful that English is not my first language. But please do point out any mistakes (o: