My Girlfriend, the Witch-Queen (ebook)

Dinner Date with the Witch-Queen.

“Calm down, man,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “It’s just a fancy meal. We’ll eat it, she’ll be happy, and Lumberton will get the help it needs. It’ll all work out.”

My reflection didn’t agree. I saw fear in my olive eyes, an accidental cut on my clean-shaven face, and a slightly-too-small suit that was a steal at 100 Imperial Marks, which also probably cost less than the tip where I was going.

At least I wouldn’t be paying for it.

I held my head. “How did I end up here?” I asked my reflection.

***

I had seen the throne room on TV, after watching the audiences weekly on INN to prepare. But being there in person, ten days ago, had been another matter entirely.

Unlike on TV, I could barely see the Witch-Queen herself, just a small woman in a wide black dress, sitting on top of a diamond throne. Above was her coat of arms, below a black granite dais.

“Ornate” did not begin to describe the wide, spacious hall. Black banners hung from the marble walls and ceiling on diamond-tipped golden rods, and I wondered how much that decor had cost. Sweltering daylight shone through the open diamond windows, and there was no air conditioning, only the faint salty smell of the ocean. None of this was remotely expensive compared to the fact the Capital was suspended over the Mediterranean through billions of marks' worth of gravity generators and nuclear reactors, a city built entirely by and for the Witch-Queen.

As the long winding line approached her, I looked around for anything that would ground me in this crazy place. The ground itself, a marble-white floor, was covered with a massive pattern inscribed in grooves: concentric circles and geometric shapes, labeled with mixtures of symbols and characters in languages long dead. Courtiers in bespoke suits or fancy gowns stood at attention behind the two tables to the side. Several magisters wore what had once been considered a magician’s garb, back when magic was make-believe. The Imperatrix Mundi had conquered the world, but she had not killed all of the Old Magisterium.

“I will consider the matter. Next!” said the Witch-Queen in a soft soprano. The man with the crying child hurried off.

My stomach knotted.

As we approached, petitioner by petitioner, I could pick out details on her coat of arms, or at least the motto at the bottom: Per Aspera Ex Luna. Although the Witch-Queen spoke with a faint British accent, no one really knew where she came from, other than “the Moon.” She didn’t seem too concerned by any petition, but I wondered if that was a form of official detachment or just boredom.

As I saw her sharp eyes carefully examine each petitioner, I decided she was just detached. I had counted six sob stories so far, and she had—no, chose—to do this every Friday, inviting a weekly torrent of human misery and despairing hope. Every Imperial citizen had a right to one audience with her per lifetime.

And this was mine.

An unmanned typewriter rattled away, recording everything that was said. “I will consider the matter,” she repeated to the petitioner before me. I could hear her perfectly—the room was deathly still aside from the typewriter, and had amazing acoustics. “Next!”

I gulped.

She consulted no schedule as she greeted me. “Michael Mason of Lumberton?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” I replied, stepped forward, and bowed deeply to the edge of the carpet before her. Deeper than before the tabernacle at church, the irrelevant thought entered my brain. But I could go there any time! I had spent months training for this one moment. It was our only chance. After all, the Witch-Queen only granted one audience per citizen per lifetime.

I looked up at her, and lost my train of thought. I could barely breathe, after all.

I had thought propaganda artists, or her daemons, had done their best to prettify her. They didn’t need to. She was small, yes, but looked almost girly in her youthful face, maybe around my age. That face was pale white with soft features, her only exposed skin contrasting with the all-covering elaborate black velvet dress and immaculate white gloves. Her hair was the right shade of auburn, though I couldn’t see much of it, because it was full of diamonds and the Imperial Diadem.

She met my eyes with her own, sharp, piercing and emerald. “Well?”

D’oh! I snapped out of it and hastily began my well-practiced spiel. “Ma’am, our village relies on an old well system for water. Recently, we discovered a kind of trapped daemon inside, and it has become unsafe to draw from it. If you would kindly deign to remove it, we would be forever in your debt.”

“Can you move the village?” she asked.

The Elders and the Mayor had argued for hours over what my response to that question ought to be, but we had finally decided honesty was the best policy. I kept my voice steady. “Theoretically, ma’am. But we would lose anything we can’t move. We don’t have the resources to reconstruct an entire village. And—it is our home, ma’am.”

“I see,” she said, looking into my eyes as if searching for the slightest deception. I was going to melt, and not from the summer heat. Then she smiled slightly, as if on a whim. “Is that all?”

“That is all.”

“Thank you for being brief. I will consider the matter. Next!”

I bowed and walked out, hoping against hope that this was enough. The Palace didn’t publish statistics on how many petitions the Imperatrix granted. But after seeing her, I clung to a little hope that mine would be one.

***

I lay on my bed in the expensive hotel room, exhausted. My once-in-a-lifetime interaction felt like it had lasted two lifetimes.

What the hell did that smile mean?

I couldn’t get it, or the rest of her face, out of my mind. If I had bumped into her at the library I would have started praying for the courage to go up and talk to her. She was just that gorgeous.

“You’re going nuts, man,” I told myself. “Like she’d seriously want a boyfriend.” No, I was going to stop it there. We would never meet again, and God willing, she would save our village.

Speaking of which, I decided I should call home. They had to all have been watching INN, probably since daybreak their time, to see my audience.

I flipped open my cellphone. For the Witch-Queen’s faults, she had standardized nearly everything worldwide, so my plan still worked even in the Capital. Through the cracked screen I could still see Mom’s congratulatory text:

You did awesome. I love you.

I texted back.

I’m exhausted.

Someone knocked at the door. Room service? The idea of having anyone to be a servant was foreign to me. I walked up and opened the door—to see a magister in an expensive suit waiting outside with a solemn expression. “Michael Mason?”

Oh no dear God this is the answer isn’t it? “That’s me,” I said, my mind shooting off in every direction at once like a pack of dogs with ADHD.

“Her Imperial Majesty wishes to tell you that she will listen to your request in more detail if you dine with her ten days from now.”

Oh no. Oh no.

“Yes, sir,” I stammered. “Tell her I’d be pleased. Delighted, even!”

“Very good.” He gave me a card and a look of disinterested pity, then bowed and left.

I closed the door, went back inside and sat down. Deep breathing. Deep breathing. This was progress. Progress that could end in my death, yes, but progress. Besides, only like three or four people had ever died of poisons intended for the Witch-Queen. Officially, at any rate. You had to figure she didn’t release the exact numbers or no one would be her food tester any more. Kyle claimed the actual number was five hundred, but he believed everything.

Whatever. Five or five hundred I would do it.

I dialed home.

“Michael!” The Mayor said instantly. “How did it go?”

“The Witch-Queen said she’d discuss it over dinner.”

“No way! Dinner Roulette?” Kyle’s voice came from the background.

“Yes, and I’m sure nowhere near as many people have died as you—”

“WHAT?” Grandma Peterson yelled.

“I’M GOING TO EAT WITH HER!” I shouted into the phone.

“WHY?”

“BECAUSE SHE WANTS TO TALK TO ME!”

Someone wrestled the phone from her. “Tonight?” Grandpa Franklin said.

“No, in ten days,” I said.

“Do you need more money?” he asked, with the slightest hesitation.

The village had pooled funds to get me here, and pay for my room in the cheapest hotel they could find. Would I just have to live on the streets for a few days?

Ten days of unwashed man would sure make a great second impression at a fancy restaurant.

“Hold up,” Grandpa Franklin said. “Your mom just asked if they gave you a number to call.”

“Let me check.” What if they spent all the rest of their money and it didn’t pan out? Of course, if this didn’t pan out… I looked over the card and saw a number on it. “There is a number. Let me call them real quick.”

“Sure,” Grandpa said. “Bye!”

“Bye for now.” I hung up, then immediately dialed the number.

The voice was female and British, but thankfully not the Witch-Queen. “Magister Alice Stephenson speaking, who is this?”

“Um, my name is Michael Mason, and—”

“What do you need?”

“I need somewhere to stay.”

A pause, and muttering in Latin. “We may have to move you to another hotel. We’ll contact you again. Do you need a stipend?”

“Uh… No, no, I think I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? You might have looked at the prices in stores here.”

I hated to beg for anything else—but she was right. What if I needed something? “Sure. I mean, yes, uh, a stipend would be nice.”

“It’ll be in your account tomorrow. Anything else?”

“I think I’m good.”

“Very good. Farewell.” She hung up.

I sat on my bed, utterly disoriented.

***

The Capital had a place of worship, usually several, for every religion, sect, and cult in the world. The Basilica of St. Albert Magnus was the largest church in the world, let alone the largest Catholic church. Rumor had it the Witch-Queen made it personally with her construction daemons, as a gift to Pope Augustine II for surrendering to her.

Whatever the case was, the day after the audience, I didn’t want to be in a crowd, just alone with God. And the streets of the Capital were very much crowded, all foot traffic except for the gondoliers and the airborne carriages above. As I struggled to navigate the streets and not get pushed into a canal, I spotted an ornate church along the way. St. Malachi Catholic Church, read the inscription above the front door.

I hurried inside. As I dipped my fingers in the brass holy water font to bless myself, I relaxed. This was normal. It looked like any other Catholic church, down to the colorful mess of posters and plastic rosaries in bags tacked to the wall.

There was a sign with a universal no over a spirogram: USE OF DAEMONS PROHIBITED INSIDE. That was different than home, but probably necessary for the Capital.

I stepped inside into the nave, which was still crowded, but probably less so than the Basilica would be. The incense wafted strongly in my nose. I walked up to the poor box and hesitated.

I was used to tithing, one of the few things Mom and Dad agreed on, but I had never tithed an amount so large. I would have written a check, but I couldn’t physically write the number, so I just withdrew from the stipend in cash.

I looked around to make sure no one was looking, then stuffed 1000 IM down the slot.

I breathed deeply, and tried not to think about the money.

I went to the altar rail before the sanctuary, and knelt.

No, if I prostrated myself before the ruler of the world, I had to do more for God. I lay flat on the ground.

“Are you all right?” a voice whispered.

I looked up to see an old priest in a cassock looking down at me with concern. “I’m… doing… not so well,” I admitted.

“If you want to talk, we can talk in the sacristy.”

“I’d appreciate it.” I got up, brushed myself off, and followed him through a door to the side.

“I am Father Jeffrey Xavier,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but the Witch-Queen invited me for dinner.”

“And you’re afraid because…?”

“Because I might get poisoned,” I said sheepishly. “I know it’s unlikely…”

“Quite. More people have died by falling into the canals than have been casualties to assassination attempts. Yet I don’t suppose you worry about the former as you walk around the Capital.”

“I actually did—I, er, am new here. I’m actually from the North American Southeast Dominion. Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

“That would help,” Fr. Xavier replied with an amused smile.

I explained it as much as I could.

He nodded thoughtfully. “Think of it this way. If it is God’s will that you really do die, you can intercede for your village from Heaven. Or perhaps the Witch-Queen will grant your petition in your memory.”

“I guess,” I said, not comforted.

“Or perhaps you are just afraid of her not granting your petition and it’s coming out as fear of death?”

I sighed.

“We all experience events out of our control. We can only pray for God’s mercy, and the strength to endure if he lovingly allows evil to occur.”

“Right. I am still a little afraid.”

“When is this dinner, if I may ask?”

“Nine days from now.”

“I’ll get you a novena to St. Louis IX. You take those nine days and pray and prepare your soul. You might still fall into a canal tomorrow, after all. Then forget about it. Worrying about the future won’t make it any easier.”

“Yes, sir.” And now I did feel a little relieved.

***

Nine days later, I took an aerial cab, which was sweet, but I could barely focus on the ride.

Even in Lumberton I had heard of the Needle’s Eye: a gourmet restaurant suspended by daemonic power over a tall, thin tower, with a kitchen for every kind of food in the world. The prices, I was sure, were even sky-higher.

So I walked in the front door and pretended I had any damn clue what I was supposed to do. The maître d’ nodded at my presence as if recognizing me by sight. “Michael Mason, sir?”

“Yes, sir.”

I could see him using all of his butler powers not to smile that I had called him sir. “Right this way, sir,” he said, and I followed him to an elevator.

Calm down, I told myself, and breathed deeply. As the elevator rapidly ascended I said a prayer under my breath. Then we left the tower behind and were suspended in thin air. All around I saw the sprawling Capital, the Mediterranean in the distance, the colossal Palace nearby.

Then we were back inside a building. The maître d’ had not even flinched. “This way, sir.”

In the wide room that swayed ever so slightly, diners chattered, drinking from wineglasses and eating luxurious-smelling dishes. I spotted many magisters in men’s and women’s evening wear—way more expensive than mine. I had never had one of those nightmares where you’re naked in front of a crowd, but I felt like I was in one now. A band—human, not daemonic—played jazz on a stage. Wait staff zipped from table to table, carrying platters, while others waited beside tables for the slightest order.

“Sir, this way.” I stopped gawking and followed the maître d’.

The Witch-Queen waited at a table by the window. I tried to brace myself for impact, but she was even more stunning up close. Really thin, too, which normally wasn’t my type—what the hell brain I don’t even have anything in the same galaxy as a chance—but she pulled it off well. She still wore a black dress with white gloves, but this one was more of an evening gown that perfectly filled out her shape. Around her neck hung a diamond pendant in the shape of a crescent moon, dangling gently over her small bosom. She wore the Imperial Diadem and had plenty more diamonds in her hair, not to mention bracelets, earrings, and rings, but her smile outshone them all.

I stopped short and couldn’t help but stare.

She raised an eyebrow. My ears burned. “Perfect, you’re right on time,” she said.

“Of course, Your Imperial Majesty,” I said quickly, lowering myself carefully into the chair across from her.

“Now what shall I have today?” she mused. A waiter presented her with a menu—only one. She laid it out on the table, and snapped her fingers. “Daisu o kudasai.” Dice appeared in her hands with a pop. “Let’s find out!”

She rolled them onto the menu. Then frowned, and tipped a die over. “Perfect. We’ll have the signature camel meat. I was hungry for that.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the waiter said. “For your wine?”

She ordered something in booze-speak. I had the courage to say, “I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Don’t you Catholics drink real wine?” she asked, but not in a hostile tone. I had no idea how she knew I was Catholic, but then again I had probably been secretly investigated in the last ten days.

“Well… yes, but…” At this point I launched into an immediate explanation of essence versus accidents so awesome that St. Thomas Aquinas looked down from Heaven and gave a huge thumbs-up to me—or so I wished I would have, but I simply finished, “My family has a bad history… we have addictive personalities…”

She raised an eyebrow. “One drink won’t kill you, and you’ll never be able to afford another.”

What if this was it? What if this would make the smallest influence on her decision? And I found it hard to say no to someone so… her. “I can handle one drink,” I said at last.

“Perfect.”

The waiter, unmoved by our discussion, bowed and departed. Another took his place.

The other guests at the other tables didn’t look at me. They looked past me, in the same way you avoid looking at doggy doo-doo that someone didn’t pick up. Heat began creeping up the back of my neck. Then again, they didn’t have the ear of the Imperatrix Mundi herself. If only for the next hour or so.

She seemed to be staring off into space. This close I could hear her whispering something. Commands to her daemons? She looked to me. “A lot of people run screaming ‘Daemon!’ whenever they see something inexplicable. So why do you say your problem is a daemon?”

“We don’t know what else it could be.” I kept my words steady.

“So? Magister time is quite valuable. We can’t send someone to investigate every incident.”

That’s what the local magisterium said. “We can’t get anyone to even come to our village, and we don’t have gravitational gear.”

“I can arrange for someone with a gravity mapper to come, but if—” She stopped herself. “Even if there is a daemon, it might hide beyond the brane. You would need a magister to know for sure.”

Progress. I smiled graciously. “Thank you, ma’am. Please send someone. We don’t have any way of fixing it on our own.”

A waiter arrived with the appetizer, whatever it was. Some kind of weird toast? He set a wine bottle on the table and began listing its… its booze-pedigree, or whatever you call it. The Witch-Queen sniffed the cork, whispered, and two wine glasses appeared in her hands. Then the waiter poured.

“Drink the whole thing,” she instructed.

“Lord, thank you for this meal, and grant that it is not poisoned so we both can enjoy it safely,” I prayed.

A man at a nearby table guffawed, and a few others tittered at me.

“Hey,” I said loudly enough to spite them. “If you don’t want to pray for the health and safety of our queen, that’s on you.”

No one replied. But I felt eyes on me, and found the Witch-Queen was smiling softly at me. “Good,” she said at last. “Now drink.”

I drank. Would it really be that bad if I died to save her from poisoning? I mean, sure, she had a horrible reputation, but in person she seemed normal (and gorgeous). Maybe I had spent too long listening to Kyle. I finished the glass, the burning in my throat almost muted by my stronger mix of emotions: fear and… excitement?

“Now the food.”

I took a bite. An orchestra of tastes played in my mouth. My tongue announced its complete and undying loyalty to the Witch-Queen.

Even I had to admit she had this system of food tasting figured out. She looked into my eyes for a few seconds—to see if I was losing consciousness, I supposed. I met those alert eyes and felt an almost tingling sense. “Iitadekimasu,” she said at last, with a snap of her fingers. Invisible hands lifted the plate and her glass to her. Utensils appeared in the air and fed her.

The whole daemonically-enhanced eating thing was just too weird, but if I concentrated on my own food I didn’t have to look at her. Of course, it was hard not to look at her. This would have been the date of my dreams if it wasn’t for circumstances.

What was I doing? This was my only chance to convince her. I met her eyes again and she raised an eyebrow. “Ma’am,” I said. “We’re running out of clean water.”

“Really?” she asked. “Your petition said this problem started six months ago.”

So she had read it! But what was the dinner for, then? “Ma’am, please understand, we are trying our hardest, but it keeps getting worse.”

“Worse?”

“Just one well went bad at first. Then more. The daemon seems to have been corrupting the whole aquifer—”

“Who told you it was a daemon?” the Witch-Queen asked, suddenly angry.

“Er, no one, we just thought—”

“Who told you it was a daemon?”

“We just guessed!”

“Who guessed?”

“The Elders!”

“Do any of them have daemonological backgrounds?”

“Not to my—Grandma Peterson tried for a magister license when she was young, but she couldn’t get a sponsor.”

“Ah, yes, the corruption of the Old Magisterium.” The Witch-Queen smiled, the wrath gone in an instant. “And what exactly do you want me to do?”

“Remove the daemon,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, ma’am.”

The waiter arrived with the main course. Camel meat tasted like beef, believe it or not. He brought so much of it that even minus my share, the Witch-Queen had plenty to eat. And eat she did—she was a slender woman, but she ate like a lumberjack.

Or more, because I was already stuffed and my stomach was unsettled.

For a time she was silent but for whispers. I had a good enough sense of hearing to tell they were names. “Daniel Woolworth. Sean King. Kerry Johnson.”

“Ma’am, we’ve had to buy water from outside,” I ventured. “The well water seems safe enough to shower in, but you know how much water a village needs to drink—”

“Three thousand liters a day?”

I was dumbfounded. “Well, yes. Around that amount. We drive over and fill tanks.”

She didn’t speak for a while, eating the meat. The next course arrived. She looked at me expectantly. I looked at the food. It looked delicious, but my stomach was warning me that a single bite more…

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t eat another bite.”

The entire restaurant froze. The jazz musicians almost missed a note. The wait staff looked on with horror.

The Witch-Queen raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “Really?”

“I’m really sorry, but I’m just full.”

“I’m not.”

“I’m sorry about that, but I am,” I said, my voice getting louder.

She raised her voice, too. “You’ll never eat out like this again.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’m full.”

She leaned in. “You’ll enjoy more.”

“I won’t, sincerely,” I said, not leaning away.

“Try it. Vomit if you have to.”

“I don’t want to waste food.”

She waved her hand. “Oh, hush. It’s my gift.”

“Can’t I taste just a bite?”

“Sure, if you keep eating after that.”

“Can’t you find someone else?”

“What? You don’t find my company enchanting?” she said with quirked lips.

“I do,” I insisted. “I would find it even more enchanting if I could stop eating.”

“What if I enchanted you so you couldn’t stop eating?”

“What the hell would that be, the Yuno Gasai approach to dinner dates?”

She froze for a moment. So did I. What had I done? Shocked understanding covered her face.

Then she bent over laughing.

My ears turned read as she laughed hysterically. She laughed so hard that she cried. The other guests looked on with confusion, but she kept laughing and laughing and laughing.

She sat up, giggled, and wiped her eyes. “You are the first person in the world to call me a yandere.”

“You got the reference?” I asked, between wonder and horror. Yuno Gasai was the psycho girlfriend par excellence in the classic TV show Mirai Nikki, one of the best of an old genre of animation called anime. I had thought I was the only person who had even heard of it.

But apparently, so had she. “How did you even—”

“Old Blu-Rays at my village,” I said. “And after the copyright reform…”

“Yeah, it’s all legal,” she said. “Shame they stopped making it. I always wondered if I should just subsidize the arts, there—” Then, as if she realized she was in public, she cleared her throat and turned to the waiter. “We are finished. But do bring the dessert.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, as did my stomach.

“This alleged daemon. What does it do to the water?”

I was surprised at the pang of disappointment from the switch to a more ‘normal’ subject. Even her voice had changed from casual to imperial. “Makes it horribly brackish,” I said, a little disoriented. “It’s poisoned several people. We find usually boiling it makes it better, but…” I trailed off as she cocked her head at ‘boiling.’ “But we’re never sure if it’s safe after that.”

“Why do you think boiling helps?”

“It just does.”

“So how do you know it’s a daemon?”

Something snapped in me. I slammed the table with my fist, rattling the dishes. “For God’s sake, I don’t know!” I shouted in frustration. “All I know is that our village is going to die of thirst unless you help. Please, please, just help us out!”

Silence fell around the room.

The Witch-Queen was unmoved. “Do you know how many magisters I’ve lost to traps that look just like this?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

“It’s a pretty simple trick. You send a report that there’s some ‘wild’ daemon out there, which is actually an anti-personnel Rank IV. My magister comes too close, and now there’s one more bloody corpse on the road to counter-revolution.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“And you? I think you are telling the truth, or at least you’re so completely fooled that you think you’re telling the truth. The question is, which one is it?”

I didn’t know how to answer that.

“I insist on the dessert. You’ll never have a like one again.”

The wait staff came by with a plate of candied mushrooms, probably as delicious as the price tag had to be high.

Please, God, just calm my stomach. I opened my mouth, then stopped.

I motioned to the waitress. “What is this?”

“Candied cardamom mushrooms with dulche de leche, sir,” she said.

I examined the dessert carefully, then spotted the gills. My whole body chilled. I looked to the Witch-Queen. “Ma’am, would you lean in?”

She looked confused, but did so.

“These aren’t porcini. They’re Cortinarius orellannus, the Fool’s Webcap. Very deadly.”

Her eyes bulged, but she said nothing, sitting back in her seat. Then she motioned to her waiter, and whispered something in his ear. He bowed and hurried off. She began whispering in Japanese, snapping her fingers now and then. “Act natural,” she said calmly.

“I will,” I said, unable to take my eyes from the deadly dessert.

In a few moments, which dragged on and on as the Witch-Queen just sat there, the chef arrived and genuflected. “What can I do for you, Your Imperial Majesty?”

“What is this?” the Witch-Queen asked icily.

“Candied cardamom mushrooms with dulche de leche, one of our specialties.”

“What mushrooms?”

“Porcini, ma’am. A prized ingredient.”

“You wouldn’t mind having some yourself?”

He looked insulted, but not afraid. “As Her Imperial Majesty wishes.” He reached for one.

I grabbed his wrist. “Stop!”

The Witch-Queen glared.

“These aren’t porcini.”

He looked even more offended. “What do you mean?”

“I can identify mushrooms, and these are the Fool’s Webcap.”

I had thought ‘white as a sheet’ was just an expression. He stared at them with terror and his mouth gaped wide. “I… er, well, I…didn’t…”

“Convenient, isn’t it?” The Witch-Queen raised her voice. “The one mushroom you serve just happens to have a dangerous look-alike.”

I used all my courage to interrupt her. “Porcini really are one of the most prized culinary mushrooms. All sorts of fancy restaurants sell them.”

“Yes! Yes!” the chef protested. “I had no idea!”

The Witch-Queen glared at me again.

“He was about to eat it without hesitation. You don’t eat your own poison without at least thinking about it for a moment.”

She glanced between us, then relaxed. “Where did you get these?”

“They were just with the rest of the ingredients. I don’t know their source off-hand!” the man pleaded.

The Witch-Queen stood. “Attention!”

Everyone and everything stopped.

“Someone has attempted to poison me. No one is leaving until we’ve searched the premises and questioned all guests and staff. The assassin may or may not be here. Remain calm. We can all make it out of here alive. And don’t eat the mushrooms!”

A noblewoman looked queasy, then vomited on the floor.

The Witch-Queen sat down again. “This is going to take a while, and I will be very busy. But rest assured, I will send someone to your village.”

I felt elated, both that we were saved and because I felt I’ve-impressed-the-girl on an entire doping scandal’s worth of steroids. I bowed my head. “Thank you so much, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Magisters appeared with a whoosh. She got up without another word and went to them. I sat back, then decided to get some seltzer water at the bar to steady my stomach.

***

It was hours before I got to go back to the hotel. The Special Magical Police talked to me for what felt like an hour alone, although maybe the Witch-Queen had told them to be gentle. After all, if I hadn’t been on her side I could have just said nothing and let her kidneys be destroyed. I would have probably died, too, but what was one more corpse on the way to counter-revolution?

When I did get back, I fell on the bed and instantly fell asleep.

The food had been delicious. The stomach upset the next morning was not. I spent a good deal of time puking into the toilet. I wondered if I’d actually eaten some other poison, but concluded it was probably the camel meat or some spice that disagreed with me, since my stomach wasn’t accustomed to such rich food.

Offerings to the porcelain god complete, I stumbled back to the living room of my suite and turned on the TV. Nothing but the Witch-Queen, the Eye of the Needle, and me. Figured. I wished they had another picture of me than a brief screenshot from my petition—but what, did I want fame?

Nah. The important thing? Mission accomplished. A strange part of me deeply wished I could see the Witch-Queen again, though. She had been known to level rebelling cities, but for a brief moment she just seemed like a cute young weeb.

I had heard her called the Antichrist, what with her ID cards to participate in commerce and her new calendar. The fact that the Pope had surrendered to her was proof to some Protestants that she was indeed the Antichrist, approved by the second beast. It was proof to some Catholics that the Pope had renounced the throne of St. Peter and now there was no Pope. The Orthodox were pretty chill overall once she had returned the Hagia Sophia. But now whatever anyone thought, none dared say a word against her louder than a whisper.

But whoever she was, hadn’t she made the world a little better? My best friend could recite every last misdemeanor of her crimes, but maybe she was just misunderstood?

“Breaking update from the Palace.” The news anchor switched to a pretty young lady—though now that I had met the Witch-Queen, all lesser girls seemed nowhere near as pretty. “The Special Magical Police has released a statement saying they believe the poisoning incident was an accident. They are currently continuing to investigate how the deadly mushrooms entered the supply chain…”

Huh, the one time where they nearly get her is the time they weren’t even trying. Crazy world.

My phone rang—all nines, notoriously always the Witch-Queen’s caller ID.

I froze. But…didn’t I want to see her again?

I tapped the answer button.

“Hey! Is this Michael Mason?”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I’m right outside your door,” she said casually. “Let me in!”

“I’ll open it!” I hurried out and found the Imperatrix herself, hand with pinky and thumb extended like a phone against her face.

“Perfect!” she said, and flipped her hand to “hang up.” She marched past me into the hotel room.

I realized, to my regret, that the place was a mess, and the bathroom still smelled of vomit. Thankfully, that was the only thing that smelled of vomit. She hopped onto my bed without a care in the world.

What on Earth? She had seemed so formal last night.

“So!” she said cheerfully. “I’ve decided to change policy, because of you. No more leaving these things uninvestigated.”

“The poisoning?” I asked.

“No. The only policy I’m changing there is no more mushrooms.” She paused, and in that one moment I saw a deep loneliness flicker through her eyes. “I’m talking about your village.”

“What?” I asked.

“Let me tell you a daemonological fact: free daemons do not interfere with the material brane. It was a daemon, and it was not ‘wild.’” She sighed, and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly in overwhelming weariness. “We’ll have to investigate every last one of these from now on. If you hadn’t told me, it would have tainted the whole water table.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, blushing.

“Yes. I am welcome,” she said with a mischievous gleam. “But I haven’t thanked you yet, have I?”

“Uh…”

“We’ll have to make a good show of it, in the end. I can’t be arbitrary, only whimsical. The Witch-Queen has to be selfish, too, you know,” she said to herself. “Anyone I ever show care about just becomes another target. Everything has to ultimately be about me. So I’ve decided to grant you a position that will make all of us happy.”

“What?” I pleaded.

“Chief Anime Watching Buddy to the Crown.”