even if her head is still bowed. What in hel is going on with this girl? Yesterday, self–assured professional, before that whore galore and now the submissive belle of a BDSM ball, I wonder how many personalities are stuck in that little body.
“You’re doing fabulous, especially considering you hold down a full time job and go to school. Because of your performance, I’ve decided to give you a raise. An extra couple of bucks an hour will show up in your next check.”
“That’s all?” Moisture gathers in those big brown eyes.
Not exactly the response I expected and I’m sure it shows. “Were you expecting more?”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant. That’s all you wanted to talk to me about?”
Okay, she knows I saw her the other night and is waiting for me to say something. I’m not going to; it’s none of my business. I know by giving her the raise I’ve kind of made it my business, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Yep, that’s it. Why don’t you take off, go study before you have to go to class.”
“Thank you, thank you so much, Keely.” She hugs me before practically running from the room.
I almost ask what happened to I’m not a touchy feely sort , but decide it’s not worth it. Waiting until I hear the click of the deadbolt I take a deep breath and wonder just how stupid I am. What if it had been The Collector, or a thief? And why didn’t I ask for help dragging in those boxes? With some reluctance, I turn back to why I’m here and shudder. Might as well get to it, it’s not going to happen on its own.
A vacuum hose at each station leads to a canister located under the vanity. The stylist is responsible for vacuuming the remnants of every cut and placing them into individual color–coded bags. A different color bag for each stylist.
Some clients choose to take their clippings with them. This is fine with me. It absolves me of the responsibility of disposal. The individual bags not taken are placed in the storeroom.
Instead of simply dumping them, I incinerate them in a barrel specially prepared for holding witchfire that stands in the center of the room. Unlike plain fire, witchfire burns cold, leaving nothing behind. Not even ash.
I learned this lovely trick from The Sisters. My grandmother and her sisters are triplets and have always been referred to as The Sisters. They have a tendency to speak in unison, as if they are one entity. Some of my childhood friends found it difficult to be around them. It’s disconcerting to have the same voice coming at you from three different directions. They are the only family I know. No one explained to me where my parents were. Most people just assumed they passed away. I stuck to the story, not wanting to admit I didn’t know where they were, or why they left. Someday, maybe Eliza, Matilda and Nicolina will explain what happened.
Until then, it’s back to burning hair. I can feel the bile rise in my throat and I try not to gag. I sort the bags by color, then carefully count and check the number with the services performed by the corresponding stylist. I count again, and then a third time.
There’s one missing. One of mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“And just what are you supposed to do, call the police and report a missing bag of hair?” Dara reclines, a dark blot of disheveled black and red, across a white couch. Even just pulled from slumber, she looks like she should be gracing the pages of some fashion rag. Now that I’ve awakened her I’m feeling a bit guilty and a lot nervous, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“Hel’s Realm, Dara, I don’t know. All I know is one of the bags is gone.”
Most people would think, t he world’s not going to end over the loss of one bag of hair , but I know better. Disposing of small pieces that seem like nothing to those who know zero about magic is probably the most important part of my job. Personal items can be used as tools, or weapons in magic. What
“You’re doing fabulous, especially considering you hold down a full time job and go to school. Because of your performance, I’ve decided to give you a raise. An extra couple of bucks an hour will show up in your next check.”
“That’s all?” Moisture gathers in those big brown eyes.
Not exactly the response I expected and I’m sure it shows. “Were you expecting more?”
“No! No, that’s not what I meant. That’s all you wanted to talk to me about?”
Okay, she knows I saw her the other night and is waiting for me to say something. I’m not going to; it’s none of my business. I know by giving her the raise I’ve kind of made it my business, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Yep, that’s it. Why don’t you take off, go study before you have to go to class.”
“Thank you, thank you so much, Keely.” She hugs me before practically running from the room.
I almost ask what happened to I’m not a touchy feely sort , but decide it’s not worth it. Waiting until I hear the click of the deadbolt I take a deep breath and wonder just how stupid I am. What if it had been The Collector, or a thief? And why didn’t I ask for help dragging in those boxes? With some reluctance, I turn back to why I’m here and shudder. Might as well get to it, it’s not going to happen on its own.
A vacuum hose at each station leads to a canister located under the vanity. The stylist is responsible for vacuuming the remnants of every cut and placing them into individual color–coded bags. A different color bag for each stylist.
Some clients choose to take their clippings with them. This is fine with me. It absolves me of the responsibility of disposal. The individual bags not taken are placed in the storeroom.
Instead of simply dumping them, I incinerate them in a barrel specially prepared for holding witchfire that stands in the center of the room. Unlike plain fire, witchfire burns cold, leaving nothing behind. Not even ash.
I learned this lovely trick from The Sisters. My grandmother and her sisters are triplets and have always been referred to as The Sisters. They have a tendency to speak in unison, as if they are one entity. Some of my childhood friends found it difficult to be around them. It’s disconcerting to have the same voice coming at you from three different directions. They are the only family I know. No one explained to me where my parents were. Most people just assumed they passed away. I stuck to the story, not wanting to admit I didn’t know where they were, or why they left. Someday, maybe Eliza, Matilda and Nicolina will explain what happened.
Until then, it’s back to burning hair. I can feel the bile rise in my throat and I try not to gag. I sort the bags by color, then carefully count and check the number with the services performed by the corresponding stylist. I count again, and then a third time.
There’s one missing. One of mine.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“And just what are you supposed to do, call the police and report a missing bag of hair?” Dara reclines, a dark blot of disheveled black and red, across a white couch. Even just pulled from slumber, she looks like she should be gracing the pages of some fashion rag. Now that I’ve awakened her I’m feeling a bit guilty and a lot nervous, but I didn’t know what else to do.
“Hel’s Realm, Dara, I don’t know. All I know is one of the bags is gone.”
Most people would think, t he world’s not going to end over the loss of one bag of hair , but I know better. Disposing of small pieces that seem like nothing to those who know zero about magic is probably the most important part of my job. Personal items can be used as tools, or weapons in magic. What
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