That final set of runes he’d carved over the plaque was a long shot, at best. He’d pleased the three weird sisters — their pause their tell – but his freedom would not go unpunished. But what was he now? Continue reading
Whisky looked over the shoulder of her Speakeasy moneyman and accountant, Smokin’ Fingers; Business had not been booming lately and she had a sense that he’d been dipping into the till at the same time he’d been cooking the books for her. Like the Scottish mage, he had become a liability, even if he was a lot younger and quite a bit more handsome. Continue reading
Prohibition had ended in early 1933. The speakeasy had already expanded its offerings to other delights not quite legal. Whisky, with her solid head and an iron heart for business, still used the Scotsman’s interdimensional tunnel to transport and store these goods and services. Continue reading
With a soft click of metal on metal, he snapped the brass tablet shut, whispering the final words to ensure its tight seal to the wall of the bootlegger’s walkway through the city sewer, for the next hundred years…or so.
“Ingress and egress, shadow between,
Passage do rest on the right sequenced three.
The spirit now locks it, twin set will it free,
As I do pray it, so mote it be.” Continue reading
“Slow down, girls!” called Bethany. The Twins raced past the sign memorializing the 1937 disaster, scrambled up the limestone incline, and disappeared onto a deep shelf in the cliff. Continue reading